


pink in the night

by Kylaroid



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/F, Gap Filler, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Smut, Missing Scene, Slow Burn, give me more pining darlene
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:53:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24169915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kylaroid/pseuds/Kylaroid
Summary: "Because Dom looked at her with such solemn eyes and hushed out her insecurities. Maybe because Dom was just as utterly alone and miserable as she was. Perhaps because feelings stir quick and hot in her chest when Dom's gaze softens against hers. Maybe they weren't so different, after all—and when it's just the two of them, connecting alone and bare—Darlene glows the softest shade of pink."---a series of pieces detailing the progression of dom and darlene's relationship starting from 2x12 to 3x10note: series currently under revisions
Relationships: Darlene Alderson/Dominique DiPierro
Comments: 6
Kudos: 92





	1. (please don't) go ahead and leave

The humidity is thick—sweltering and almost unbearable—which just makes this whole process even more horrible. Darlene is standing awkwardly at the steps of her new “apartment” – although framing it as a new apartment is awfully generous. It is more equivalent to house arrest with the addition of “you need to spy on your brother for the federal government” tacked on top of it all. She has a white-knuckle grip on a duffel bag containing what few possessions she could shove into it. Not that she had many things to begin with when she came back to the city. Darlene inhales sharply—that insufferable summer air pouring into her lungs—and exhales as she croons her head over her shoulder to look at the surroundings. The apartments are closely packed together and fenced in by brick walls topped with wrought iron fencing. That’s about as pleasant as it gets, unfortunately. Trash is starting to pile up on the sidewalks and people are setting up booths beside the road to sell goods. Just another reminder of the good ole times everyone is in currently. Because of what fsociety did—because of what _she_ did.

Darlene sighs—turns her head back to center and readjusts the strap of the purple backpack slung across her shoulder. Wonders how long it takes for someone to open up a goddamn door. Agent DiPierro has been fumbling with the keys for a good minute, but at long last has managed to find the right one. Twists the key into the lock and forces the door open with her shoulder. It makes a loud distinct creak as it swings open against the agent’s weight. Dom steals a quick glance back at Darlene as she walks in—cognizant to leave the door ajar behind her. “Come on,” she instructs. Almost as if she has better things to be doing. Like she’d rather be anywhere else right now. ‘ _You and me both_ ,’ Darlene thinks as she drags herself and her luggage into the flat. Closes the door shut behind her with her foot as she enters.

“So this is the safehouse—you can, go ahead and put your stuff wherever.” Dom exhales—finding a spot out of the way in the kitchen to stand. Folds her arms to ease whatever nerves and tensions hang thick in the summer heat. Darlene’s dark eyes scan the apartment—taking in all the features and décor. It has a fairly open floor plan. The central hallway leads out into the kitchen and the wall to the left has carved out arches that peer into the living room. The living room seems to double as a bedroom—evidenced by the wood-framed bed perched in the near corner. It’s rather dark and the dreary shade of paint coating the walls doesn’t help with that. But as far as places in New York go—it’s pretty good. The décor could use some work though—if you could even call it that. Someone must have picked up every half-dead plant from the greenhouse section of E Corp’s shopping centers and placed them in here. Darlene hums to herself as she enters the kitchen—dropping her bags up against the wall. Her shoulders instantly feeling the relief from the removed weight.

“Jeez, who the hell decorated this place?” Darlene scoffs—miming Dom and crossing her arms. Shifts her weight onto her other foot as she eyes the kitchen. “I mean—who hangs a rolling pin on the wall?” She asks incredulously. Dom regards her sternly—making prolonged eye contact that is almost unsettling. In their hours interrogating—Darlene has spent a lot of time peering into those blue eyes. That gaze that always seems to unnerve her. She wonders, for a moment, if it’s just because she’s an FBI agent, or if there is something about her, as a person, that rattles her nerves. Dom’s lips curve into a smirk—then a scoff.

“You know, considering you didn’t have a place of residence on record before we brought you in, I don’t think you’re really in the position to be complaining about the decoration.” Dom chides in that nearly condescending tone that provokes a wave of hot irritation in Darlene’s chest. Darlene is never far behind though. They’ve gotten good at this back-and-forth at this point.

“Why so butthurt about it, DiPierro? You handpick the decorations yourself?” Darlene retorts—shaking her head to flip her hair back over her shoulder. Dom exhales—almost a chuckle in her breath—and presses her palm flat against the wooden dining table.

“Like I have the time to decorate every CHS’ apartment.” She shoots back exasperatedly—but Darlene swears she can almost see the hint of a smile. Perhaps amused at how much bullshit she has to put up with. Darlene gains a great sense of satisfaction knowing she’s getting a rise out of her. “The bathroom is in the door to your right. The bedroom and living room is to your left.” Darlene peers to either side—making mental notes about her new living space. Slowly, her gaze rolls up and along the ceiling and crevices lining the apartment.

“So, where are the cams in this place? Nice and discrete I bet.” Darlene leans back against the wall—flits her gaze to meet Dom’s and makes a noise. Something between a snort and a laugh. “I bet you pervs have cameras installed in the bathroom too.” Dom’s gaze dashes away—retreats at that comment—which provokes curiosity in Darlene. Makes her want to prod further—see how riled up or flustered she could get the agent—but uses her better judgment and decides against it. It’s only a moment before Dom finds her composure again.

“Yeah, there are cameras installed throughout the apartment. They’re equipped with mics too.” Dom explains—pulling her handbag off her shoulder to begin rooting through it. “For your information, there’s no camera in the bathroom, but there is a mic.” Darlene hums—leans away from the wall and starts to inspect the flat. The kitchen looks like it’s ripped straight from an office. No dishwasher, a black microwave tucked into the corner, and a drying rack for dishes. Not that she’s going to be doing any cooking. The sink is small—irritatingly so for an apartment with no dishwasher—but that’s New York for you.

“Does the shit in here even work?” Darlene asks—turning the tap on and running her fingers through the water that inks out. Waits to see if it warms.

“Everything works Darlene.” Dom sighs, growing a little tired of her constant complaints and pessimistic attitude. She finally finds what she was looking for at the bottom of her bag and pulls out a small manila envelope. “Here.” The tap turns off with an irritating squeak of the faucet handle before Darlene can confirm the heat for herself. She turns on her heel and spins to face Dom again. Now greeted by the small package extended out towards her. She inspects it for a moment before hesitatingly accepting it into her hands.

“That’s your key to the safehouse. Try not to lose it.” She returns to her handbag and digs around for something else. Darlene pulls the pins together and flips open the package—a worn gold-toned key falling out and into her palm. ‘ _Congratulations Darlene Alderson—your first real apartment in the city. All paid and provided by the federal government_.’ She chastises herself with a sigh—sliding the key into her pocket. “Curfew is eight. You’ll need to get approval for any activities past those hours. You can get clearance from either Agent Santiago or myself.” Dom elaborates as she continues to rummage through papers and old lollipop wrappers. ‘ _Jesus H., I need to clean this thing out_ …’

“Wow, _mom_ , any other rules you wanna lay on me? Keep alcohol out of the house? Use cup coasters so I don’t leave water stains on the FBI’s precious staging furniture? No boys overnight?” Dom scoffs—pulling a black device out of her handbag and turning back to Darlene again.

“No—but you know that bringing anyone here compromises your position as a CHS. Do that and you’ll risk losing your immunity.” Dom huffs, offering the device to Darlene. It’s a smartphone. Darlene takes it and looks it over—examining it. Scrutinizing it.

“I take it you guys aren’t going to give me my phone back?” Darlene exhales heavily as she holds down the power button—waiting for the screen to light up.

“It’ll be in holding as evidence. We transferred all your contacts over to this number, but it’s tapped so we can monitor your conversations.” Dom elaborates—hoisting the handbag back over her shoulder. The phone illuminates—a block of texting reading Motorola flying across the screen as it boots up.

“Wow, a Motorola Moto E6. FBI’s budget must really be hurting, huh?” Darlene shakes her head as she examines the apps and contacts installed on the phone. It was practically the cheapest smartphone you could get on the market. Of course, meaning that it had limited storage and capabilities. A definite downgrade. Not that she should be complaining given her situation. But given that her boyfriend just died, she spent hours in FBI custody being interrogated, and now she has to spy on her brother—Darlene thinks that it’s just fucking fine if she complains for a little while. She can give herself that, at the least.

“If anyone asks, you lost your old phone.” Darlene quirks her eyebrows—the corner of her mouth curling into a smirk as she raises the phone up to her ear.

“New phone, who this?” She snarks playfully—the smile dipping down a little at Dom’s unimpressed and unfazed expression. ‘ _Jesus, this lady seriously needs to get fucked_.’ Darlene lowers the phone—spaces out as she stares at it for a long moment—before raising her gaze back to Dom. She gives a little shrug of her shoulders—her oversized sweater shifting with the movement. “The other one was a burner anyways.” Dom offers a silent nod—the cover story was good. Better, anyway.

“We’ll be operating most days out of the apartment above yours. If you need anything, you can come check during working hours. I also programmed some numbers into your new phone. The number for the bureau is listed under Dell. Santiago’s office line is Jesse.” She pauses for a moment—reaching up to tuck the hair out of her eyes. “And my work line is listed as Rachel. You should only use those numbers if you have information pertaining to the case or an emergency situation.” Darlene blinks down at the phone before turning it off and sliding it into her pocket. Now nestled beside the apartment key.

“Rachel, huh? You know, you don’t really look like a Rachel.” Darlene’s lips crack into a smile and she gives a thoughtful hum. “You guys picked some really boring ass names. I’ll have to spice it up later.” She folds her arms and shifts her weight onto her opposite foot this time. “I think you’d make a good Scully.” Dom rolls her eyes—just slightly—enough to get her irritation across.

“Changes the contact names if you want—just don’t put anything obvious or real.” She knows that Darlene knows. Darlene isn’t stupid. She knew that before they even met. But she’s got such a flippant attitude that she’s never quite sure _what_ kind of stunt she might pull. “I have to get back to work. We’ll touch base in the next day or so on how things will proceed.” Dom scans Darlene and offers a quick nod before making a bee-line for the door. Darlene almost calls out for her to stop, but catches herself. She’s suddenly rocked by the realization that once the door opens and closes—she’ll be alone. The thought is terrifying. But she swallows the fear to maintain her pride.

“Yeah.” Darlene murmurs—her gaze unabating as it follows Dom to the entrance. “Sure thing.” The snark and confidence from earlier has melted away into a quiet solemnness. Her voice feels tiny and overwhelmed by the silence and emptiness of the flat. Dom peers over her shoulder as she opens the door—flashing Darlene an almost sympathetic glance—before slipping out and closing the door behind her.

Darlene swallows hard—unsure of where to look or what to do now. The open floor plan that originally looked so inviting now feels oppressive. Her body shudders with a surge of dread—nerves skittering under her flesh like roaches. She decides to check out the bathroom. Swings the plain unsuspecting door open and closes it—perhaps a bit louder than she intended—behind her. Small is an understatement, but it’s got all the necessities. Sink, toilet, and shower. The anxiety crawling about her system rises into her throat and makes her want to scream by pure instinct. And that shower suddenly looks pretty good.

Darlene shoves the shitty plastic shower curtain to the side and turns the shower handle up to high heat. Yanks her sweater over her head and tosses it to the floor. It really is such a ratty old sweater—she practically grabbed the first thing she could find to change into once she got the chance. Anything that wasn’t covered in Cisco’s blood was an improvement. Her fingers wrap around the waistband of her pants and pull them down. Undergarments hastily following lead. As she disrobes—she can feel the fear start to overwhelm her and she ducks into the shower.

It’s still a bit too cold and she gasps instantaneously as the water hits her back. The pressure is way too high and the downpour is almost painful. She shudders—shaking visibly from a combination of anxiety and cold—and slumps down to the floor of the shower. Pulls her knees close to her chest and burrows her fingers in her hair. Digs her nails into her scalp as if she could simply will the panic away. But she can’t. Instead, she tucks her head between her knees and wails—her cries muffled by the heavy torrent of water. Rides out the waves of the panic attack through the curtains of water that soak her. As long as it takes. The water bill is on the FBI, after all.


	2. searching for connections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Darlene’s dark eyes interrogate her—regard her with a mix of skepticism and curiosity. She’s so irritating and rude, but there’s an odd genuineness to her. An understanding that quells that irritation brewing in her chest—just a touch." 
> 
> in which dom and darlene sit down and talk

The sound of computer keys clacking fills the apartment as Darlene searches for a film to torrent. Her legs are propped up on the dining table and laptop situated on her lap. It hums—the fan inside whirring away as she pulls up Deluge—and the heat from the computer seeps into her skin. The thick scent of chemical smoke funnels into her lungs, cigarette still warm between her fingers. The burn is familiar and pleasant—melting away the irritation and anxiety fueled by sheer boredom. It’s been two days of sitting around this godforsaken flat doing nothing. Doing nothing doesn’t bode particularly well with her—especially these days. Gives her too much time alone with her thoughts. It also doesn’t help that the apartment is covered in cameras—although she hasn’t been able to discern where they all are. Not that it matters anyway—the feeling of being constantly watched and surveilled—drives her absolutely batshit.

Darlene brings the cigarette back to her lips and takes a long drag—exhaling a stream of smoke that dissipates into the air. Extends her hand out—a little aimless—and smothers the fire out against the clear surface of a crystal tray. She leans back in the wooden chair—the legs lifting off the ground a little bit as she juggles a delicate balancing act. Body, chair, laptop, legs. Fingers delicately typing in the name of a film that she really has little interest in watching. But there don't seem to be any better alternatives.

 _Click_.

The deadbolt on the door turns loudly and a moment later the wooden door noisily squeaks open with a heavy thud of pressure. Darlene’s blood runs cold and she settles in the chair—the legs loud as they pound against the tile flooring. She practically dumps her laptop on the table beside accrued take-out containers as she flies onto her feet—knocking the chair onto the floor in the progress. Darlene inches her way towards the backdoor to the patio—her fight or flight instinct kicking into full gear. _Flight_. Darlene has always been flight. But the adrenaline coursing through her system eases—just faintly—when she sees that it’s Dom standing in the hallway.

“ _Jesus_ , couldn’t you fucking knock?” Darlene snaps as she bends over to pull the chair back to its feet. Her heart still pounding wildly against her ribcage. “Nearly gave me a heart attack…” She grumbles—flipping the lid of her laptop shut as she takes her seat again.

“I told you I was coming over today—didn’t you get my voicemail?” Dom wanders into the kitchen and places a plastic bag onto the table—its opaque coating making it impossible to see the contents inside. Darlene eyes it curiously before flitting her gaze over to Dom—regarding her with a scathing glare.

“Slept in.” Darlene returns curtly—reaching over and plucking the package of camels off of the table. Flips open the lid and pulls out a stick. “Besides—” She begins as she flicks the sparkwheel with the tip of her thumb. Waits until the end glows bright with gentle embers and inhales—allowing herself to ease with that chemical relaxant. “—who even checks their voicemail these days?” Darlene chuckles dryly—her gaze steady on Dom as she pulls out one of the chairs and takes a seat. “Nothing but spam offers for reducing your student loan and signing up for E Corp’s 5/9 alert systems.”

“Well, you should start.” Dom huffs—relaxing as much as she can into the stiff wood frame. “The bureau needs to know that you’re going to cooperate. And that starts with picking up your phone and returning calls.” Darlene suppresses the groan that instinctually forms in her throat as best she can. Reaches out and dusts her ashes off into the tray before returning the cigarette back to that comfortable spot between her lips.

“Fine.” She relents—her gaze drifting between Dom and the plastic bag on the table. “So, what’s in the bag?” Darlene asks pointedly between drags of smoke. “Brought me a shiny new ankle bracelet? Heard they’re in style now.” She hums as she leans back in her seat again. Dom snorts and shakes her head.

“Nothing like that.” She leans across the table and rummages through the bag—pulling out three boxes of jigsaw puzzles. “I thought you might get bored, so I brought these.”

“What—do I look like I’m sixty?” Darlene snarks—quirking her head and letting the smoke slip out from between her lips.

“You’re a hacker—puzzles should be a fun change of pace for you.” Dom elaborates as she begins to push the accumulating trash to the edge of the table. Making space before she opens a box and dumps the puzzle pieces across the table. Darlene sighs audibly—making sure her displeasure is noted as the pieces scatter. ‘ _Great, thanks for making a giant fucking mess on the table that I’ll have to clean up later._ ’ She thinks—but decides to keep to herself.

“Just think of it like putting together a rootkit.” She pulls the chair closer to the table—the wooden legs groaning as they’re dragged across the tile. Darlene’s dark eyes interrogate her—regard her with a mix of skepticism and curiosity. She’s so irritating and rude, but there’s an odd genuineness to her. An understanding that quells that irritation brewing in her chest—just a touch. Her eyes fixate on the agent’s fingers as they pick up an edge piece and connect it to another.

“So you barged into the apartment to give me puzzles?” Darlene asks—prying for the real reason that she came. Of course, she knows full well that if she had listened to the voicemail she would likely know the answer to her own question. Her gaze flits over to the puzzle pieces spewed across the table. “Are all of the pieces even here?” It would be her luck to actually bother working on one of these only to find out that there are three pieces missing at the end. Dom’s eyes blink up to meet her gaze before settling on the pieces—pushing the edge pieces into a small pile.

“We need to talk about your role as a CHS. Stay updated.” Darlene takes note that she didn’t answer the question about all the pieces being there. Makes her wonder if she swiped a few—just to spite her. She’s caught by the temptation to just tune her out—let her focus fixate on the cigarette between her lips and the pleasant sting it creates in her lungs. But she hasn’t really seen or talked to anyone in a few days and she would be lying if she said she wasn’t aching for some company. Even if the company was a stick-in-the-mud pig. So Darlene relents—drags her chair a little closer and eyes over the puzzle pieces. Searching for those connections.

“Thought you guys already gave me the song and dance back when you interrogated me. Fish Elliot for information about Tyrell, monitor fsociety’s activities, report back—” She drawls as she picks out pieces of a small cottage. “—you guys finally have something for me to do?” Dom exhales, a bit too loud, as she shifts the corner pieces into their respective spots.

“Not yet, but we should have something for you soon.” She pauses as if she just remembered something important. “Have you heard from Elliot?” Dom asks—gaze softening with anticipation, hopefulness—perhaps. Darlene meets that expectant gaze before drawing it back to the pile beneath the tips of her fingers.

“Nope. Sent him some texts, but it’s just radio silence.” She swallows hard—her voice suddenly low and strained. “Not like that’s unusual or anything…” The words trail off into a sigh—her nails picking at the layer of cardboard underneath one of the pieces. Dom leans back in her chair—takes a lollipop out from her handbag and pulls off the wrapping. Discards the wrapper alongside its accrued brethren which have now started to form their own stratum. Lodges the bright pink lollipop into the side of her mouth and swirls it around her mouth idly as she thinks. Eyes zoning out across the sea of puzzle pieces before blinking up to catch Darlene.

She’s staring at her—closely. Intently. Quizzically. Heavy eyes unable to settle on staring at her fingers or her mouth or her eyes—so she averts her gaze to her cigarette. Dom’s shoulders drop a little as she contemplates the meaning of that uncertain glance—suddenly feeling like the floorboards were shifting underneath her and she had lost her footing. Her brows furrow together, thoughtful, before she blinks with recognition. She fishes around in her handbag for a moment before pulling out another pop.

“Want one?” Dom asks—the words only slightly slurred by the candy lodged in her cheek. Darlene snorts and then breaks into a laugh that makes Dom pull back slightly.

“Fuck no—those things taste like shit.” She chuckles dryly—smothering the light of her cigarette out beside the other one from earlier. Emotions flash quickly in Dom’s chest—frustration, embarrassment—endearment? The way that Darlene laughs stirs something inside of her—ineffable and impossible to pin down. She recoils—shoves the candy back into the layers of the bag—and tucks her hair back behind her ear. Pulls out the lollipop and twirls it pensively in her fingers so she can speak clearly.

“What about fsociety? Any activity lately?” Darlene slumps back into the seat and folds her arms. Irritation riddled on her face. 

“Look, dude, if I had anything, you would know.” Her head shakes softly—expression shifting from irritation and sinking into a quiet solemnness. “Not like anyone fucking tells me shit.” At least these days. Ever since Elliot got out, ever since fsociety started shrinking. It’s founding members dwindling into the Dark Army’s increasing body count. She and Elliot may have started this revolution, but it was clearly growing beyond her grasp—both it and her brother. Her gaze grows distant and glossy as she spaces out—her mind replaying memories on loop. An Alderson loop—drawing the tides of self-loathing and regret back until something can break her out.

Dom watches Darlene fade away—painful contemplation sweeping over her features. She swallows hard—not entirely sure how to proceed. Scans the room and takes stock of what’s changed since she’s last been here. The heavy thick scent of cigarette smoke, accumulated takeout containers, and clothes spewed across the floor. Some shirts, tanks, shorts—pretends not to notice the frill-lined underwear peeking out from under a pair of pants. Slowly, she returns to Darlene—still as lost in her own mind as when she last looked.

“Darlene—” Dom drawls as she leans forward—a softness in her tone that brings her back. She’s not sure if it’s genuine or not—but she allows herself to ease against Dom’s easy sympathetic eyes. “Are you doing okay?” For a moment, Darlene wonders if Dom had gone through the apartment recordings. Heard the nightmares and night terrors she’s had for the past three nights. Even if she had—would she really care? She doesn’t have to ask herself the question—she already knows the answer.

“Peachy.” Darlene huffs—breaking the eye contact and squirming to get comfortable in the chair. Her gaze now purposefully avoidant. Dom sighs—her hand wringing the back of her neck as she thinks about where to step next.

“Look, Darlene—I know the past couple of days have been hard—” She starts—Darlene quick to retort.

“Bit of a fucking understatement.” Dom pauses and allows Darlene the space to snap and be hurt. Waits a moment before continuing with her train of thought.

“—it’s okay to be upset. You know, the bureau has several trained therapists if you want someone to talk to about what—”

“Tried therapy once. Wasn’t really for me.” Darlene quips, crooking her head to the side and giving her a scathing glare. Dom can’t really blame her—Santiago tried to force one of the therapists on her after the shootout in China. She went for one session before calling it quits—lucky that there was so much work and they were so understaffed that they didn’t have much of a choice in keeping her from her job. She contemplates a more humanitarian approach. Thinks about placing her hand on Darlene’s knee and asking her if she wants to talk. Tell her that she doesn’t have to be alone. But boundaries are there between CHS’ and agents for a reason—it's for the best that their relationship stays strictly work-oriented.

With a little reluctance, Dom stands up—adjusting the position of her handbag over her shoulder. “Well, if you change your mind.” She starts as she pushes the chair in flush with the table. “You have our numbers.” Darlene’s gaze is still settled on the ashtray, but she can hear Dom’s footsteps start to grow distant.

“I thought—” Her words make those retreating footsteps stop. “—I thought you had to go over my CHS position?” Darlene murmurs—her voice so soft and quiet that she wonders if Dom will be able to hear her from down the hall.

“Had to see if you had any updates since you didn’t return my call.” Dom calls back over her shoulder—lollipop still twirling between her fingertips. “I’ll be in touch regarding your first task soon, so make sure to check your phone this time.” With that—she places the candy back into her mouth and opens the door. The oak groans as it is swung open and then creaks as it is pulled shut. And Darlene is alone—again—with just her thoughts and the lingering scent of smoke. She sighs—running her hands through her hair and combing it over her shoulder. Eyes darting between the laptop and the puzzle before reluctantly rooting through the array of pieces splayed across the table.

Itching for any hint of a connection.


	3. pork soda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A cacophonous symphony of conflicting feelings stir in her mind, but the most utterly mundane thought rises to the surface above the rest. Muddling and drowning out everything else around her. ‘Are her eyes more blue or grey?’

An iron symphony of metal on metal rings out as Darlene struggles with a shitty old-fashioned can opener. The crank is slightly rusted and resists against the twist of her hand—making this an absolutely infuriating task. She must have adjusted it five times before she got a steady grip on the lip and made actual progress. ‘ _God—you think they could have at least bought some new utensils for the place. Ass wipes_.’ She grumbles as she carves open a small can of pineapple chunks. Grabs the neckline of her tank-top and pulls it up to wipe the sweat from her chin. Steadily starting to wonder if the amount of effort she was putting into opening this godforsaken can would be worth the reward.

It’s been two more days since Agent DiPierro’s last visit to the apartment. Another night terror in the meanwhile. The sheets drenched when she awoke with loud gasps and strangled cries. The wails dissipated into a muted sob as she returned to her solitary reality. Two torrented films finished and one more halfway there. All of them were bad—but there’s some kind of odd enjoyment to be found in their mediocrity. Perhaps criticizing something helped to alleviate the sting of her own current situation. And in the span of those days, enough sweat to fill the apartment’s non-existent bathtub. Keeping the windows open helps when there’s a pleasant breeze—but on days like today. When the air is stagnant and humid—the sky desperate for a torrential downpour to release the tension. Opening the windows only lets bugs in. Flies that have accumulated around the ceiling lights. Darlene reaches up and wipes the sheen from her forehead before returning her hands to their arduous task. She makes a mental note to ask DiPierro for a fucking AC unit next time she sees her. This can’t be a safehouse if she’s at risk of dying from a goddamn heat stroke.

Darlene’s gaze spaces out across the countertop—mind wandering as her fingers grip the can with a certain forcefulness. A memory flickering in her minds eye. It’s less of a concrete memory and more of an abstract _feeling_ than anything, of summers back in Jersey. Remembers how she would scramble onto the countertop to pull cans of pineapples and peaches from the top shelf of the cupboard. She always struggled with the can opener back then too. Elliot would ask her if she needed help and she always refused. Placed the soles of her feet on either side of the can for extra traction and fussed with it for a good ten minutes before claiming her prize. A certain pride warm in her heart as the two sat on the curb with canned fruit in their hands. Humid summer evenings, the sweet taste of peaches and the sting of pineapples on her tongue; glimmers of calm in her chaotic adolescence.

Now she’s here. And only God knows where Elliot is because he isn’t bothering to answer any of her texts. Not as if that’s uncommon for Elliot— _especially this side of him_. Darlene wants to imagine that she’s unaffected by it. That’s easier than admitting the truth—that she’s afraid. Afraid that everything has caught up to him. Terrified of the possibility that their revolution ends with Elliot Alderson in a body bag. She does her best to steel herself off from that fear, but she can’t ignore the way it crawls underneath her skin. Quickening her pulse and slicking her palms with sweat. Darlene doesn’t drown in her anxiety as she usually does. Doesn’t get the opportunity. Her train of thought derailed by the sensation of a sharp sting across her palm. A choked gasp inks from her throat she blinks around, eyes catching on the red rising to the surface of the cut and the jagged edge of the can lid. She didn’t realize she had been gripping it so tightly that the lid arced back and sliced the rough flesh of her palm open.

“ _Shit—_ ” Darlene exclaims, inhaling air through her teeth as she takes in the wound. Watches as the blood dribbles down the crook of her palm and runs down her forearm. Warm, wet, and leaving small droplets across the kitchen tile. She reaches over and turns the kitchen sink on—running lukewarm water over the cut. Wincing as she watches the water run a faint tint of red before circling the drain. She groans and runs her lower lip between her teeth to stifle the noise. Her shoulders shuddering against that aching sensation. Distantly, she can hear that familiar sound of creaking hinges. The noise muffled only faintly by the flow of the water.

In her peripheral vision she sees red. The auburn tint of Dom’s fiery locks as she jogs over to the kitchen. Darlene isn’t sure if she’s more pleased or irritated to see her—but she’s leaning towards the latter. “Darlene—” Dom huffs as her eyes narrow in on the red hue of the tap water. “Are you okay?”

Darlene scoffs, and pushes the corners of her lips up into a forced smirk. “Yeah, peachy.” Shakes her head, brown tresses falling over her bare shoulders. “It’s just a scratch, it’s barely anything.” She huffs, gaze settling on Dom with an expectation that she would be satisfied and _leave_. But Dom isn’t convinced by her cavalier demeanor.

“Here, let me look,” she insists. Reaching over without giving Darlene much of a choice and grabbing a hold of her wrist. Darlene makes a move to recoil from her touch, but Dom’s grip is firm. Steady. Warm. She splays Darlene’s fingers out and stretches the flesh of her palm taut to examine the cut. Darlene blinks up—catching Dom’s features as she inspects her. Gaze downcast—mingled soft concern and solemn seriousness. Lips the faintest pink and a touch chapped—her teeth raking over her lower lip and grazing the dried flesh. Thick mascara-coated lashes fluttering with blinks as Dom’s ashen eyes dart back and forth across the surface of her hand—as if she was trying to read her palm. Emotions and situations swell in waves around her—threatening to pull her under. A series of unread text messages sent to Elliot, the FBI agents operating out of the apartment above hers, the pain emanating from the rough of her hand, her complete lack of freedom or control. A cacophonous symphony of conflicting feelings stir in her mind, but the most utterly mundane thought rises to the surface above the rest. Muddling and drowning out everything else around her.

‘ _Are her eyes more blue or grey?_ ’ Her eyes narrow, as if squinting would bring clarity and resolve the question. But Dom’s voice breaks the silence along with her eye contact.

“That’s a nasty cut, but it doesn’t look like it needs stitches. Just needs to be disinfected and bandaged up. Hold on, okay?” Dom’s gaze rises to her suddenly avoidant eyes before she releases her iron grip on her hand. Slips away and disappears into the flat’s bathroom—leaving Darlene standing alone and awkward in the kitchen. The bleeding has died down a little, but the cut is still bright red and irritated. Smudges and remnants of blood smeared across her flesh and freckling the kitchen floor. Darlene takes note that she’ll have to clean that up later. Dom returns a moment later with a simple white container and a washcloth in hand. She sets it on the kitchen counter and thumbs over the latch keeping it sealed. It makes a satisfying _snap_ sound as it opens—revealing an assortment of basic first aid supplies. Runs her fingers along the bandages and disinfectants. As if just to make sure that everything was there. Her head bobs affirmatively before she directs her gaze back to Darlene. Eyes flickering between her face and hand. “Alright, let me see it again.” She says—arms folding backward to shimmy her blazer off. It glides off of her shoulders and slides down her arms—settling in her hands before finding a place to rest. Draped across the countertop beside the canned fruit and godforsaken can opener from hell.

Darlene watches as the fabric glissades off, leaving Dom in a grey tank with a modest neckline. The absence of her jacket now revealing tattoo sleeves that pique Darlene’s interest. They’re intricate—rich colors, a classic kind of look, and just a touch faded. Watches intently as Dom runs the washcloth under the faucet before wringing it out. Summer light shines through the windows of the flat and warms the curves of her biceps. Highlights the array of colors painted across her skin. Muscles quivering faintly and hands firm as she twists the rag damp. For just a moment, Darlene forgets that she’s looking at the socially inept FBI agent in charge of monitoring her. She’s just a woman—a beautiful woman. A certain warmth radiates heavy in her chest and rises to her cheeks. ‘ _They’re just cool tattoos—that’s all._ ’ Darlene rationalizes those brewing nerves.

Dom has always seemed like such a straight-laced hard ass. But—perhaps there is a surfeit of layers lying beneath that serious façade. Darlene’s gaze is lost across the surface of her biceps, eyes trailing along the edges of each tattoo as she gives the washcloth a final shake. A memory surfaces, strong and overwhelming, of when they were sitting in the interrogation room. Of Dom talking about The Careful Massacre of the Bourgeoisie. At the time, Darlene thought that she was just bullshitting her—mentioning the film just to force some kind of connection. Maybe she was off the mark. Or perhaps she just didn’t want to accept the possibility that there were a lot more similar than she wanted to admit. Dom’s voice cracks through the air and rips her focus away yet again.

“ _Jesus H_., it’s hot…” She mumbles—wiping the back of her hand across her forehead. Darlene smirks at that and exhales a dry chuckle. Begrudgingly extending her wounded hand out towards the agent.

“Maybe it wouldn’t be so hot if you guys could spring for an AC unit.” She snarks, eyebrows quirking with the snide comment. Darlene winces, inhaling sharply as Dom dabs the surface of the cut with the washcloth. The white fabric steadily becoming saturated with remnants of her blood.

“I’ll see what I can do.” Darlene rolls her eyes. She’s always like this—never making promises and always relenting to the jurisdiction of the bureau. That stick promptly returning to the resting spot between her ass cheeks. But “ _I’ll see what I can do_ ” was better than nothing—Darlene decides. Dom wipes off the last traces of fresh blood from her palm before discarding the now bloodied washcloth onto the counter. She reaches over and grabs a small white package—ripping it open to pull out the alcohol wipe snug inside. Darlene inhales at the sight, already fully aware of what was coming next.

“Didn’t even know that first aid kit was in there.” She exhales, watching as Dom unfolds the wipe and brings it close to her skin. She’s the type who has to watch when she’s getting shots or stitches. Once when she was a kid, she fell off her scooter while gliding down a hill and cut her forearm open on the concrete. The diatribe her mother gave her about not wearing padding and being reckless has faded over time. But Darlene can clearly remember watching intently and anxiously as the doctor stitched her arm up. Dom tenderly dabs at the wound and Darlene swallows the instinctual hiss that slithers along her throat. Desperate for release but she refuses to let it go.

“I, uh, I guess I should have included that in the tour, huh?” Dom returns playfully—in an awkward and earnest kind of way that makes Darlene ease. Her shoulders relaxing and rolling downward as a wave of calm takes her. After a moment, she huffs and shakes her head.

“Yeah, would’ve been good to know.” She concurs, watching with bated breath as Dom wipes over the cut a few more times. To her relief, Dom sets it beside the washcloth—finally done with it. She leans back to grab a gauze pad and a beige first aid wrap. Delicately lays the pad over top of the cut before wrapping the tape securely around her palm. The pressure feels nice against the still throbbing wound, along with the sensation of Dom’s warm soft fingers pressed to her skin. Darlene is loathe to admit it, but she’s missed human contact. Like this. Simple and… intimate.

“You’re pretty good at this—patching people up. Bet you were a Girl Scout.” Darlene quips playfully—eyes darting up to see if she can catch Dom’s gaze. She’s fixated on her work, but Darlene observes her features. Watches as her lips crook upward, her head giving a faint incredulous shake before a light-hearted scoff slips from her mouth. 

“What happened, anyways?” Dom asks, changing the subject which Darlene doesn’t fail to notice. Tears the tape and presses it to Darlene’s hand to secure the seal. Finally releases her hold on her hand, returning it to Darlene who runs her other hand over the fresh bandage.

“Butterfingers, I guess.” She admits with a roll of her shoulders. Pauses before adding in. “But I think that can had it out for me.” Darlene elaborates, tilting her head in the direction of the pineapple can resting on the counter. Catches a pithy laugh as it slips from Dom’s lips. She’s almost sort of… pretty, when she laughs. It’s endearing, a stirring a light hum between her ribs as she listens. A softness that dissipates as quickly as it had come. The moment past as Dom starts collecting the assortment of trash on the counter and throwing it out. Darlene draws her gaze down to her wrapped palm, inspecting it intently as her thumb brushes over the tape. “Guess that’s what happens when you wrestle with a can opener for half an hour.” She hums.

“You know you can ask for help, right?” Dom retorts, tone soft as she tucks the remainder of the first aid supplies away. Prompts a scoff from Darlene. 

“What—I’m just supposed to go upstairs and ask the FBI to stop federal investigations to help me open a can of pineapples?” She shakes her head incredulously, arms folding reflexively. “Somehow I think I’ll manage.” The latch on the first aid box clicks shut again and looks back up at her. Those indistinguishable steel eyes catching and holding her. Her usual instinct to avoid eye contact, dash away and build comfortable walls around herself is absent. No, instead there is simply an ineffable pull in the soft silence of the flat as they hold each other. The moment breaks when Dom’s voice cracks through the lull, slow and soft to start.

“I’m just saying, I’m here.” She reaches up and tucks her hair back and out of her eyes before adding in. “Or, well, upstairs—I guess.” Dom murmurs, a nervous chuckle underlying her words. The agent’s gentle earnest tone strikes some particular chord in her chest. The part of her that aches for company and compassion. Something to distract her from the loneliness that envelopes the apartment like a smog. That subconscious yearning only interrupted by the faint buzz of Dom’s phone in her pocket. She pulls it out and glances down at it—eyes skimming the screen. Slowly nods her head before sliding it back to its resting spot. “I, uh, I've got to get back to work. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Right…” Darlene drawls softly, steeling herself again for the inevitable return to solitude. Sways her shoulders towards the countertop and away from Dom, her vision eclipsing around the bloodied washcloth. But she catches Dom in her peripheral vision as she steadily eases away—disappearing down the hallway. Hears as the hinges creak open and the door shuts behind her. Rests her back against the sill of the counter and exhales heavy—tension dispersion into the humid summer air. The hum of the ceiling light buzzes, loud and nearly overwhelming in her ears. Her vision drops, sinking to the floor and catching on the blood freckling the tile. Draws constellations with her eyes between the specks, her mind swimming in a film of noise. Does her best to break above the surface of the tension and grab onto something to distract herself from spiraling. Her fingers find the damp fabric of the washcloth and she slowly drags it into her palms. Sighing and slowly sinking to the floor to wipe the remnants of blood from the tile. Leaving the can of pineapples resting in the summer heat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from glass animals' pork soda


	4. itch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dom always appears as an enigma to Darlene. Like trying to pin down a patch of haze. One day, she can be so interpersonal, kind, caring—almost… intimate. And the next, no-nonsense, serious, focused, and wringing every drop of information out of her. That duality in her infuriates Darlene. It intrigues Darlene. Drags her into the haze and suddenly she can’t see or think clearly. Her fingers buzz with curious energy as she starts searching for something to grant her clarity."

A flicker of darkness, and then light. The ceiling lights have been dimming and then brightening in unpredictable waves the past few nights. Just more of the brown-outs that have plaguing the city for the past two months. It’s almost impossible to pin down when they’re just going to fade before coming back—or whether they’ll be off for a few hours at a time. However, the unsettling nature of the insecure power grid has faded and it seems so utterly normal now. As if this is the way things have always been. Darlene is huddled up on her bed—laptop warm on her thighs with her cellphone perched beside it on the comforter. Phone operating as a hotspot as the internet fades in and out.

For now, Darlene is just grateful for the reprieve from Santiago's incessant interrogation and berating. That she’s granted a chance to be alone and relax without feeling suffocated by questions she doesn’t have the answers to. In the background, against the sound of rain on glass-pane windows—an AC unit hums. Generating a draft of cool air that provides a much-needed relief from the thick summer heat. Dom had brought it over yesterday. Apparently it was in bureau storage. Used and occasionally turns itself off, but was in good condition otherwise. It was buried inside an Amazon cardboard box that sunk into her palms when Dom handed it over to her. It was absurdly clunky and heavy—and Darlene’s back nearly gave in when the full height was released into her grip. Dom quickly asked if she needed help carrying it inside, but Darlene was too stubborn to accept the help. Mumbled something about “ _it’s fine—it’s just awkward to hold is all_ ” and uttered a quick “ _thanks goodbye_ ” before hoisting it inside and dropping it unceremoniously in the kitchen.

Later that evening, after she set up the AC unit, Darlene inspected the box. There was an old address label stuck to it that had been cut in half when the box was opened. It was made out to Dom DiPierro at a New York residence. Whether or not it was her current address was something that Darlene had to ascertain for herself. Curiosity had crawled and settled under her skin, desperate to be appeased. Thankfully, the cover of the brown-outs, and occasional black-outs, providing her the perfect opportunity to scratch that itch.

Her fingers tap away at the keyboard—digging through incognito and secure browsers for information about any of the agents she had to deal with. Santiago was first on her shit list and while he didn’t have a large internet presence, it wasn’t difficult to obtain information regarding him. Most of his profiles had been carefully curated to present an image of a proper all-American man. Photos of family gatherings, life updates like job promotions, a new shelf he had built, or a book he had recently finished reading. Darlene was bored just _looking_ at his profiles. The picturesque portfolio he had built for himself just further cemented her innate dislike of him. A pleasant façade masking a cold, calculating, and cruel person. Nothing she didn’t already know.

Dom is next. Anticipation and nerves warm in her chest as she starts digging around for information on the agent. Dom always appears as an enigma to Darlene. Like trying to pin down a patch of haze. One day, she can be so interpersonal, kind, caring—almost… intimate. And the next, no-nonsense, serious, focused, and wringing every drop of information possible out of her. That duality in her infuriates Darlene. It intrigues Darlene. Drags her into the haze and suddenly she can’t see or think clearly. Her fingers buzz with curious energy as she starts searching for something to grant her clarity.

But unlike Santiago, Dom’s internet presence is like a wisp of smoke. Hardly there at all. No Facebook, no Twitter, no other social media to speak of. Darlene leans back into her pillows and sighs—running her lower lip between her teeth as she thinks. Dom did proclaim that she has no life, that all she does is work, so it would make sense for her not to bother with things like social media. Still, that itch is there. Even more prominent now, perhaps. Darlene dives back in and starts digging around for DiPierros located in New Jersey. Scrolls through a few individuals’ Facebook profiles until she reaches a Trudie DiPierro. Her fingers hover above the trackpad as she eyes over an image of what seems to be a family gathering. And there is Dom—red hair and facial features unmistakable. She’s wearing a red turtleneck sweater and smiling awkwardly at the camera. Surrounded by an assortment of family members. Everyone looks so pleasant and… genuinely happy. Darlene feels a strong throbbing in her chest, an emotion she can’t label, but falls close to a yearning of some sort. Perhaps longing for that simple familial normalcy.

The rest of the photos and profile feed are hidden behind basic security measures that Darlene bypasses relatively easily. She scrolls to the bottom of Trudie’s page and starts weeding through every piece of information. One of the oldest photographs posted is of Trudie and Dom—Trudie in a modest simple dress and Dom in a cap and gown. The caption is Trudie fawning over Dom’s graduation from law school—lauding her daughter’s achievements. Dom looks younger in the photo—just a touch. There’s a light in her eyes that Darlene doesn’t think she’s seen before. She looks flustered, embarrassed by the giant hug she’s receiving from Trudie in the photograph, which prompts a dry chuckle under Darlene’s lips.

Another set of photographs is from a family reunion at Ocean City. Small kids running through the water and building castles that admittedly just look like mounds of sand. The family huddled together—barely able to squeeze everybody into the frame—for a picture on the boardwalk as other tourists pass by in the background. And a photo of someone named Jerry—who Darlene ascertains is one of her brothers—playing beach volleyball with Dom. She’s in an athletic one-piece and jumping up to spike the ball over the net. Darlene’s eyes settle on the image of the agent—the outline of her body clear with the tight-suit hugging her curves. Bare arms showing off her toned tattooed biceps. Clear long legs with strong thighs. Darlene swallows thickly—a heat rising to her cheeks as she scrutinizes the photograph. The warmth that settles on her face brings a wave of confusion and irritation over her. It isn’t that Dom is attractive—or unattractive. Darlene doesn’t care about that at all, she tells herself. It’s just weird to see your assigned FBI agent in a swimsuit when all she ever wears is business clothes. That’s it. That’s all there is to it.

She quickly flips to the next album—most of the pictures being more of the same. Posting about her grandkids and each mundane milestone in their life. Celebrating Dom’s birthday—which she makes a mental note to remember. More family gatherings and posting recipes she’s found online that she swears she’ll try out soon. Darlene wonders if she does make them. If Dom will go over to her mother’s house tomorrow and try this Roasted Vegetable Frittata recipe from Ina Garten.

Sometimes, Trudie posts pictures from her women’s church groups. She’s Catholic and she wonders if Dom is religious. She doesn’t seem like the type to make time to go to Mass on Sundays. All those tattoos don’t help to conjure an image of Dom DiPierro sitting in a church pew. It makes Darlene curious if Dom had a rebellious phase growing up—perhaps something she’s grown out of now. As she combs through Trudie’s profile, she’s not sure whether she’s gaining clarity or simply finding new facets of Dom that she struggles to fit with the other information she knows about her. But Darlene is able to ascertain one thing. It’s simply a hunch—but it hums strong in her bones. Dom DiPierro is a genuine person. No facades or curations. What you see is exactly what you get. She feels that authenticity poignantly—overwhelmingly. Decidedly wipes her computer and shuts the lid. Now feeling very alone and unsettled in the flickering lights of the flat. That itch still hasn’t left her. No, the curiosity comes in stronger waves—riddled with pangs of anxiety that trickle down her back.

Darlene shimmies off of the bed and slips on a pair of well-worn sneakers. Snatches a piece of junk mail off of the table along with a pen and a pack of cigarettes. Hastily starts jotting down the address on the Amazon box across the back of the envelope before shoving it, along with her cigarettes and her laptop, into her backpack. Slings the purple bag over her shoulder and grabs her keys before slipping out of the apartment. She knows she might receive some lecture about sticking to curfew, but Darlene has no doubt that she can easily come with up some kind of excuse to appease their complaints.

The hinges groan as she swings the door shut and locks it behind her. Burying the keys into her bag and swapping them for a cigarette and a lighter. Flicking the starter until it produces a warm glow and smoke funnels into her lungs. She lets the cigarette hang between her lips as she puts the pack and the lighter away—this time pulling out the envelope she had scrawled the address on. Darlene takes another long drag as she thumbs through a map of New York on her phone—doing her best to locate it without actually inserting the address. Since she has the full address, it isn’t terribly difficult to locate. And thankfully, it isn’t unreasonably far away either. It takes her a few minutes, but she plans out a route to the address and smothers her cigarette out against the brick exterior of the building. Eager to throw caution to the wind and satisfy that gnawing curiosity of hers.


	5. what's my name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Darlene speculates, for a moment, what DiPierro might be doing. Even more work is her immediate thought. Dom said herself that she has no life and she can hardly picture her doing anything else. But she forces herself to try. Remembers that photograph of Dom spiking a volleyball at the beach. Perhaps Dom would be settled in bed watching something on Netflix. What television shows does she like? True Crime? Darlene chuckles dryly at the thought—it's a bit too on the nose."
> 
> in which darlene searches and discovers

The streetlights dim, just for a moment—then flash off entirely before returning to full brightness. The occasional darkness makes it hard for Darlene to make out the street names she had scrawled down on the envelope of an E-Coin credit card offer. She squints against the settling darkness. The sun is barely a sliver behind her as it sinks into the horizon. Painting the sky behind her a brilliant array of fiery orange and red. It gradients into a deep dark blue that stretches before her and blots out the sunlight. She’s close though—if the street signs are any evidence of that. She would confirm with her cellphone but she had turned it off—better safe than sorry.

Her eyes are nearly glued behind her shoulder—scanning the periphery for any signs of the agent. Dom had left the safehouse hours ago. She heard when the door above hers slammed shut. She watched from the window as Norm, Dom, and Santiago all shuffled off into the city. Somewhere beyond her reach. Perhaps to some quaint normalcy awaiting them at home. As Darlene walks—her thoughts drift to Dom. That’s perfectly normal—she’s heading to her apartment, after all—Darlene reasons. She wonders what awaits Dom when she returns home. Does she have a completely average boyfriend—or perhaps, even a husband who greets her at the door? Helps her take off her jacket and asks her how her day went. And Dom would tell a story about the irritating CHS living beneath her workspace. Darlene shakes her head—there was no ring in any of those photos. There was no partner of any kind wrapping their hand around her waist. And then the thought crosses her mind, for just a moment.

 _Maybe Agent DiPierro is just as alone as I am_.

It drifts away as quickly as it had arrived—into the air and mingling with the scent of piled up trash along the side of the road. Even the streets in this segment of the city were trashed too. Darlene exhales heavily and swallows—redirecting her focus back to the street signs and numbers labeling apartment buildings. Turns the corner and inspects the road. Shoots a glance down at the envelope in her hands to confirm that she’s at the right street. Runs her lower lip under her teeth as she contemplates turning around and going back to the safehouse. She was already in a load of shit—she _shouldn’t_ cause any more trouble. Doing shit like this was the reason why she ended up in her current fucked up situation. But there’s that itch, ever-present and burning curiosity throughout her chest. She had come all this way, so there was no point in tucking tail and running back now.

Darlene reaches back, a bit aimless, and slides the hood of her jacket over her head. Glances over both shoulders before trudging down the sidewalk. Keeps her gaze low and eases her periphery vision up to catch the building numbers as she walks. She finally reaches her destination a block or so down. A towering apartment complex with a brick exterior and an array of neatly lined windows. Fairly large windows too—she observes. Recalls that Dom’s apartment is on the third floor and scans the story—noting that several of the windows have a warm glow emanating from them. Perhaps Dom has already returned home and is sitting up there—in her apartment. Darlene speculates, for a moment, what DiPierro might be doing. Even more work is her immediate thought. Dom said herself that she has no life and she can hardly picture her doing anything else. But she forces herself to try. Remembers that photograph of Dom spiking a volleyball at the beach. Perhaps Dom would be settled in bed watching something on Netflix. What television shows does she like? True Crime? Darlene chuckles dryly at the thought—it's a bit too on the nose. Would she be a “Great British Bake Off” fan or a “Narcos” kind of girl? Maybe she would be watching a horror film. Something new—like Oculus—or perhaps a classic. Maybe Silence of the Lambs.

Darlene tears herself away from her speculation and reminds herself why she came here. Gaze flickering to either side of the building before she ducks into a side alley. Drops her backpack against the ground and slinks down against the concrete wall. Just a few minutes—maybe ten—that would be enough. Unzips the front pouch and pulls out her laptop, settling it back to its comfortable spot in her lap. Most apartment complexes like these offer free internet as a service for tenants. They are also notoriously poorly protected and easy to access. No need for her to use her cellphone as a hotspot when the apartment’s generic Spectrum network would do. She _could_ intercept the traffic on the network and potentially grab Dom’s computer data. However—given that she works in the Cyber Crime division—Darlene doubts that she uses the network. Instead, she looks for available Bluetooth devices located on the third floor of the building.

There’s a Bluetooth speaker turned on in one of them, a few cellphones that are available, and one Alexa. Darlene hums—fingers steady on her keyboard as she inspects her options. Most speakers don’t have audio recording features and she isn’t terribly interested in just learning what music DiPierro listens to. None of the cellphones match the model Dom uses—at least, not her work phone. But an Alexa…

Alexas—much like this building’s shitty Spectrum service—are also notoriously easy to hack. Easier than, for example, building a rootkit or hacking into Steel Mountain. Fake apps, Bluetooth interception, and even simple lasers can be used to gain access to Alexas. Not to mention that a hacker can easily and remotely force an Alexa on—essentially turning it into a bug. Darlene wonders if Dom would own such an incredibly unsecured device, but shrugs her shoulders and gets to work setting up interference. Remotely programs a command to force the Alexa into continuously recording audio even after a command has been given. Routes the signal so that audio transmissions will download automatically to her PC as innocuous-looking MP3 files.

Once the set-up is complete—Darlene exhales heavily and slams the lid of her laptop shut. Worms it back into her backpack and slings the purple bag over her shoulder. She peeks her head out of the alley—glancing either way and verifying that the coast is clear before slinking off into the settling darkness.

Getting back to the safehouse was easier than finding Dom’s apartment complex. Assuming she had the correct address and that Dom didn’t use an old box from some old apartment she used to live in. As she fusses with the key to the apartment, she wonders if she possibly risked getting chewed out—or even worse, her immunity—for no good reason. Perhaps this was all just a giant waste of time. Darlene sighs as she forces the wooden door open and shuts it with her foot behind her. Flicks the lock back to its resting position before heading to the bedroom-living room combo. Darlene tosses the purple bag onto the bed before easing herself onto the edge—kicks off her sneakers and discards them across the floor. She grabs her headphones and laptop and settles into her bed. Thumbs over her trackpad as it begins to download intercepted files. Her mind starts to run through a litany of situations and outcomes. Maybe she would hear the voice of some utterly random person rambling in their apartment. Maybe there would be nothing at all. Maybe—

But when the audio file starts playing, Dom’s voice is unmistakable. The sound forces a hitch into Darlene’s throat as the weight of her actions settles over her. Equal parts terrifying and electrifying. 

“Alexa, play some Lucinda Williams.” A folk-rock sound rattles through her headphones—the music eased down faintly so that Darlene can make out any background noise.

“ _Pull the curtains back and look outside,_  
 _Somebody somewhere I don't know_.”

Country—with some clear folk elements. Somehow, Darlene didn’t peg Dom for a country kind of gal. But then again, she had never given Dom’s music tastes much thought. Most of their conversations have been Dom prying information out of her or giving her assignments like some kind of 12th grade English teacher. Music never made the agenda. The apartment is silent—with the exception of the occasional sound of a refrigerator opening or cap being snapped off of a bottle. There’s no conversation, nobody signs of anybody else. So she probably lives alone—Darlene concludes.

She leans back and grabs the flat soda that’s been sitting on the nightstand and takes a swig of it. Darlene sinks into the pillow and starts digging through torrent websites for a good (or not so good) movie to watch—the faint static and droning melodies of folk songs still distantly humming in her ears. Perhaps she’d watch an old shitty horror movie, like the Blob or Basket Case. Her fingers clack against the keyboard as she types in the title of a film and clicks the download link. Eases her hands away from the laptop as she waits for it to finish torrenting so she can watch her mediocre film of the day. Darlene contemplates getting up and getting a fresh drink from the fridge, but something stops her before she makes a move for the kitchen.

“Alexa, what’s my name?”

Darlene stiffens reflexively at the sound of the agent’s voice ringing against her eardrums. Stills her breathing and she hones in on the soft tremor of Dom’s voice—listening for the inevitable follow-up. The music stills as Alexa registers the command and pauses the song.

“Your name is Dominique DiPierro, but you told me to call you Dom.” Dom hums—barely loud enough for the speakers to register.

“Yeah—everybody calls me Dom. Dominique just feels so… weird. I guess.” She pauses. “Too lengthy and formal.” Dom chuckles dryly. “Sometimes ma calls me Dominique though—when she gets mad.” Without the music filling the room, Darlene is able to make out what sounds like shifting covers. “It’s nice, though. When she says it.”

“What about you Alexa? You have a mom?” In the silence as Dom waits for it to respond, Darlene feels a poignant ache in her chest. Dom DiPierro talks to her Alexa. And not in the “ _I’m going to ask my Alexa random questions to see what half-funny programmed answers I can get_ ” kind of way. Darlene feels like this is the kind of thing she should laugh at. Her FBI contact sits at home alone and chats with her Alexa. But she can’t bring herself to laugh or even manage a pithy chuckle. It just feels… sad. Darlene sets her laptop on the comforter and pulls her knees up to her chest as she listens to their conversation. It’s not as if she’s any better. She’s sitting in a safe house, alone, listening to an FBI agent talk to her Alexa.

“I do not have parents. But I was designed by Rohit Prasad and Tony Reid.”

“Two dads, huh? That’s pretty cool. I—” There’s that silence again—longer than before. Darlene almost wonders if Dom had decided to stop talking altogether before she finishes the thought. “I can’t actually remember the last time I saw my dad…” The sentiment rocks Darlene—her dad passed away when she was still fairly young. She thinks she remembers seeing him in the hospital—hooked up to all sorts of tubes and IVs. Perhaps she held his hand and told him she’d visit him again real soon. But the memory escapes her. Corroded over time like a corrupted hard drive. A heavy sigh fills the silence before Dom speaks again. 

“Guess I should try to sleep, huh? Goodnight, Alexa.”

“Have a good night. Sleep well.” Dom laughs at that—and then that shifting sound returns. And then it is quiet. Darlene’s shoulders ease down, unaware of how tense her posture was before she relaxed. Static buzzes in her ears and she is filled with an overwhelming emotion that she can’t shove away no matter how hard she tries. She feels an aching sorrow for Dom—accompanied by a wave of understanding that perhaps they were just as lonely and isolated as each other.


	6. call me at nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Usually, she digs around for dirt to use later—but that familiar desire to gather blackmail material is utterly absent. She’s only left with that pervasive burning curiosity that skitters under her flesh and a pang of guilt that sticks slick to her skin like oil. This is just in case. This is to cover her back in case something happens. This is just because she’s bored. Darlene finds herself building up a wall of excuses to mask the simple fact that Dom intrigues her and she wants to know more about her."
> 
> in which dom needs more

“ _I'm gonna find me a reckless woman,  
Razor blades and dice in her eyes.  
Just a touch of sadness in her fingers,  
Thunder and lightnin' in her thighs_.”

There’s a new stream of audio awaiting Darlene when she wakes up. After last night—after hearing Dom talking wistfully to her digital assistant—Darlene almost feels apprehensive about continuing to surveil her. She’s not even sure what she’s going to do with all this information. Usually, she digs around for dirt to use later—but that familiar desire to gather blackmail material is utterly absent. She’s only left with that pervasive burning curiosity that skitters under her flesh and a pang of guilt that sticks slick to her skin like oil. This is just in case. This is to cover her back in case something happens. This is just because she’s _bored_. Darlene finds herself building up a wall of excuses to mask the simple fact that Dom _intrigues_ her and she wants to know more about her.

“Alexa, play my morning playlist.” Dom’s voice is raspy—remnants of fatigue riddled through her tone as she speaks. _Silver Stallion_ starts emanating from the device as water runs in the background. Darlene skims through the track for the highlights. When Dom pours her morning coffee. When she comments about the country going to shit. Likely after she reads the news, Darlene presumes. And when she leaves—rummaging through her handbag, jostling with her keys, and the door swinging shut behind her. And then Darlene is left with the silence and a prolonged sense of yearning for something _more_. Eyes flickering across the room before she closes the file and folds her laptop shut again.

Darlene leans back and rests her head against the wall. Closes her eyes and hones her ears on the sounds around her. Mostly the cityscape—distant sirens, honking cars, dogs barking. But sometimes if she really focuses, she can hear the faint muffle of talking above her. The shuffle of feet on the floorboards. Some days there’s nothing. Some days the loud discussions go on for hours. Today seems like it’s already leaning towards the latter. It’s always painfully obvious when Santiago decides to make a visit because he always makes a point to be painfully and obnoxiously loud. Today is a case example. Darlene can hear the back and forth, but can’t make out any of the words. It only lasts for a minute before it dies down—melting away into the sounds of the city.

Darlene swings her feet over the side of the bed and with a sigh, hops up. Stretches her arms over her head and feels her muscles quiver with the extension. She shuffles over to the kitchen and blinks at the microwave. 12:07. She cards her fingers through her tangled locks and exhales heavily. Darlene flinches reflexively when the door upstairs slams—the generic box of shredded wheat in her hand shuddering with the jolt of her hand. But the adrenaline eases throughout her system and she doesn’t even react when there’s a loud knock at the door. She doesn’t react to the second knock either. At this point, she knows that they’ll just let themselves in eventually.

Darlene leans back against the counter and scoops up a spoonful of cereal. Her peripheral vision remains locked onto the hallway as she eats—waiting for the inevitable swing of the door. The deadbolt clicks and a moment later DiPierro snakes her way inside—the redheaded agent looking thoroughly exasperated. Darlene quirks her brows, lips curling into a smirk as she swallows.

“Morning Agent DiPierro.” Darlene drawls—cocking her head when Dom folds her arms and posts herself up against the wall.

“I see you’re finally up.” Dom retorts in that familiar chastising tone that provokes irritation in Darlene’s chest.

“Yeah, well,” she pauses, setting the bowl down on the counter. Swings her arms idly as she takes a step forward. “What can I say—I had trouble sleeping. Okay?” That answer seems to make Dom relent, just a touch. Her shoulders easing downward as her muscles relax. The aggravation drains from her face and it’s almost as if she’s been granted some kind of clarity. Those steely eyes interrogate Darlene—scanning her quizzically. The hem of the oversized t-shirt she stole from Cisco rests as her mid-thigh and comfortably covers her briefs. For just a moment, Darlene swears she can feel Dom’s intent gaze roaming across the expanse of her bare legs. But as quick as her eyes had settled there, they dashed away. Suddenly avoidant. 

“You should get dressed. Santiago wants to do a check-in upstairs.” Dom huffs, reaching up to brush her hair up and out of her face. _Santiago must be on her ass again_. He’s been on her case for the last week or so and seems determined to be a complete ass every time he shows up. As far as FBI agents are concerned, Dom is the least irritating one out of the lot.

“Coooooool. Can I finish my breakfast now?” Darlene snarks—not really asking for permission as she returns to where she had set the bowl down. Dom slides her hands into her back pockets, as if she had no clue where else to put them, and pauses contemplatively before nodding.

“Yeah, sure. Just don’t take too long.” She sounds almost defeated—as if this was just one more thing tacked onto an already bad day. Maybe Dom would go home tonight and talk to her Alexa about it. Perhaps Darlene would listen. Darlene’s gaze is steady on Dom as she trails out of the safehouse, the door swinging shut behind her when she exits. Her eyes return to the cereal bowl, vision hazy as it zones out across the milky surface adorned with shreds of wheat. Her appetite seems to have left out the door along with Dom.

* * *

Darlene soon finds herself perched on the edge of a couch—stuck in the middle of a heated discussion between Dom and Santiago. Like a child forced to sit and listen to their parents arguing. Waiting for the inevitable topic of divorce to arise. Except in this scenario, it would be socking Darlene and tossing her in jail—she presumes. Her confidence in their willingness to keep her around dwindles with each appearance of Santiago.

“I told you we should have put a wire on her during the Elliot meet. You want to know _why_ we have no leads on Tyrell or fsociety’s activities? We’ve had no contact for days since their meet. It’s obvious they got tipped off.” Santiago snaps, his hands waving to accent his frustration.

“How many times do we have to have this conversation? If you’re so convinced that Darlene tipped Elliot off, you can dig up and go through her phone recordings from that night.” Dom huffs, raising her hands in defeat before they settle on her thighs. “If you ask me, sir, focusing on that is a waste of our time. We should start establishing connections to other fsociety ties. They’ve gone dark but you and I both know that they haven’t just disappeared completely. They’re planning _something_ and we need to find out what.” She turns, gaze settling on Darlene, finally addressing her. “Are you sure you hit up all of your fsociety contacts?” Darlene rolls her eyes, arms folding defensively in return.

“I already told you guys, most of the fsociety members scattered after the Dark Army started cleaning up shop. Maybe if you hadn’t leaked our members’ faces to the press I might be able to get a hold of somebody.” She shoots back—eyes narrowing with irritation and resentment. Her scathing glare catches Dom and her expression falls. Maybe a glimpse of remorse or perhaps just irritated at herself for burning potential leads. But that mournful expression doesn’t linger long. Dom can feel Santiago’s patience dwindling and exhales her nervous energy—composing herself.

“I know. I just need you to think. Is there anybody else that you can contact? I’m not asking for anyone inner circle like Mobley or Trenton—even someone who was temporarily involved is fine.” Darlene rolls her eyes and sinks back into the couch.

“Shit, dude, I don’t know. It’s not like I have every fsociety member’s name and contact information memorized.” She huffs, her fingers fidgeting nervously with the rings on her hand. “A lot of people went in and out. The group got pretty big after 5/9. I didn’t have time to sit down and keep track of everyone.”

She pauses—spacing out as her mind riddles for something to give them. Anything to get them off her back. “Maybe Turing? The kid did some social media work for us. I mean, he was good, but I don’t think he used a burner like I told him too. I—I don’t know, I _might_ be able to find his number.” Darlene stresses the improbability of it. Dom leans back, her head slowly bobbing as she processes the information.

“Alright. Let us know when you’ve made contact with him and keep us posted.” She turns to Santiago and Darlene observes from a distance as the two of them exchange glances. They hold each other’s gaze for a long moment as if daring—challenging—the other before Santiago relents. Sighs and snatches his blazer off the back of a chair.

“You’re grasping at straws here, DiPierro.” His voice is pointed, almost a warning, before he turns for the door. “Let me know if you find a useful lead.” With that said, he leaves. Bringing in a hot gust of humid summer air with his exit. Dom’s body instantaneously softens—her muscles relaxing and posture easing as the tension leaves her body. She reaches up and rakes her fingers through her hair—adjusting and pulling it back over her shoulder. Darlene's head cocks slightly to the side, now growing accustomed to that nervous tick. Dom's subtle tell. The agent's gaze drifts across the floorboards, aimless and uncertain before it eventually returns to Darlene. She blinks with realization, as if, for a moment, she had forgotten Darlene was even there.

“Let me know if you hear from Turing.” She murmurs, a noticeable absence of that usual forcefulness and authority in her voice. Exhausted and defeated.

“I—” Darlene stops, suddenly unsure of what she was going to say. Sorry? Some half-assed attempt to console her? Ask her if she wanted to talk about it? She swallows those possibilities and shakes her head. Places her hands on her knees and pushes herself back onto her feet. “I’ll just… see myself out.” Darlene slinks past Dom and pauses when she reaches the apartment door. Hand hovering over the handle. “I’ll let you know—about Turing.” She adds, surprising herself with how gentle her tone comes out. Darlene doesn’t turn to catch Dom’s expression and instead simply slips out the door and returns back to the safe house.

* * *

The cool glow from Darlene’s phone lights her face in the dim ambiance of the apartment. A Signal message from Jakob Walterman, better known under his alias Turing, displayed on her screen. An afternoon of digging, redirections, and dead ends finally managed to result in a connection. She hums, taking a moment to thumb through their brief conversation—pleased with the progress. Even though she's basically forced to provide information for the feds, she can't deny the satisfaction of her own work. She collapses back onto her bed and pulls up her contacts—scrolling through until she finds one labeled _Scully_. It rings, three times before Dom picks up.

“Agent DiPierro.” As professional as ever.

“Informant Alderson.” Darlene shoots back playfully and she can hear a breathy scoff from the receiver.

“It’s late—do you have information relevant to the case?” Darlene’s lips curl into a satisfied smile—wondering if she had just interrupted some folk song or perhaps an engaging conversation with Alexa.

“Dude, it’s only, like, nine. You go to bed that early?” She hums, idly twirling a tress of brown hair around her fingers as she speaks.

“Darlene, if you don’t have anything related to the case to share, I’m going to hang up.” Darlene suppresses a groan and forces herself to sit up.

“You wanted me to let you know if I heard from Turing.” She starts simply—releasing the tension riddled throughout her chest with her exhale. There’s a brief pause before Dom follows up.

“And?”

“I managed to find him. Had to go through some channels to track him down. He quit working on fsociety shit to take a job managing the new E-Coin wallet servers.” Darlene can hear Dom’s heavy sigh rattle thick against her ear.

“So another waste of time.” Darlene can practically feel Dom’s frustration. Not necessarily directed at her—but simply from the perceived result of hitting yet another dead end.

“You didn’t let me finish.” She retorts—finally granted a chance to give Dom that condescending tone so she frequently uses. “I said _he_ doesn’t work with fsociety. But he gave me the contact information for the person who took over his position. Some dude named Isaac Peterson. Apparently goes by Cromwell online.”

“And this guy, Cromwell, do you know him?” Dom’s voice sounds optimistic for the first time all day—hopeful and pulling any leads she can grasp.

“Nope. But it’s better than nothing, right?”

“It’s a start. I’ll let Santiago know and we’ll get back to you with how we’re going to proceed.” Darlene opens her mouth to utter a quick farewell, but Dom hangs up before she gets the opportunity. The safehouse still and silent with the absence of Dom’s voice. When it’s late—the sun just set and darkness taking over the apartment—the quiet is unsettling. Eases under her skin and amplifies the insecurities and self-loathing sentiments echoing in her skull. Music and movies have helped most nights, but tonight—she just wants to hear _somebody_. Anybody. Something that isn’t the voices in her head reminding her of how she fucked everything up and landed herself in this hauntingly still apartment. Alone. So she flips open her laptop and checks her folder for the newly downloaded feed from Dom’s apartment. Slides her headphones on and listens intently as a voice breaks through the static.

“Jesus H. I’m tired…” Dom shifts in her bed, the comforter rustling with the movement. “Alexa, set an alarm for five.”

“Okay, I set an alarm for five AM.”

“Alexa…” There’s a long pause. “Do you believe in love at first sight?”

“I think it’s a sweet notion, though personally I am hoping for love at first listen.” Darlene chuckles dryly at the automated response—almost in sync with Dom’s pithy scoff.

“Is that so?”


	7. just today

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It pulls her back to the present—where they are. Just two women sitting on the kitchen floor of a humid New York apartment. More honest than perhaps they’ve been in a long time."
> 
> in which dom and darlene leave themselves vulnerable

Despite the lead Darlene gave Dom and Santiago, she hasn’t heard from either of them in a few days. The lingering uncertainty doesn’t sit right with her, but it’s given her plenty of time to watch shitty movies and skim through recordings of audio from Dom’s apartment. Granted, the recordings have been far from entertaining or even interesting as of late.

Dom's been coming home later and later every night and there’s been a noticeable absence of Alexa conversations. But there was one interesting segment of audio two days ago. It was in the middle of the night—the usual still settled over the flat. The silence of Dom’s apartment was broken by a sudden loud gasp. As if Dom couldn’t get enough air. Between heavy breaths, Darlene could make out the sound of fabric rustling followed by the jostling of plastic. Shuddering against Dom’s flesh. And then a distinct _click_ of a handgun being cocked. Dom choked—breath ragged with heavy sobs as she seemed to find herself—her breath slowly returning in steadier waves. She shuddered out a sigh and sniffled—a lull falling over the apartment for a few moments before it was broken again.

“Alexa, what time is it?” Dom’s voice was ragged and unsteady in a way that Darlene had never heard before. The sound provoked an irrepressible pain in her chest when it rattled in her headphones.

“It is 3:18 AM.” Dom exhaled heavily—swallowed and eased back into her bedding. The sound of shifting covers filled the silence of the apartment. The audio fell back into static after that—but the sound of Dom sobbing wouldn’t leave Darlene’s mind. It hadn’t for the past two nights. She feels an aching sadness for Dom and she can’t pin _why_. She shouldn’t feel sorry for her at all. But she does. Darlene wonders what haunts Dom’s dreams as she finishes off another container of shitty fried rice. Ponders her past as she lies in bed and rolls around—unable to find rest.

Darlene finally rouses herself out of bed in the early afternoon. Slinks into the bathroom and brushes her teeth. Grabs a few slices of cold leftover pizza from the refrigerator and settles at the table for an apathetic variation of brunch. Pizza in one hand and her shitty Motorola in the other. The puzzle Dom had dumped all over the table is starting to take shape—the edges filled out and various segments completed. Little quaint cottages and the bends of a river. The scenic countryside. Darlene crooks her head and wonders if Dom grew up somewhere like this. A quiet rural section of New Jersey with farmland and cozy little houses filled with country music. Whatever area of New Jersey it was, she’s sure it’s better than Washington Township—the local toxic waste site.

She turns her attention back to her phone and starts scrolling through her twitter feed. News articles about E Corp’s new mark up on the processing fees for E-Coin transactions, unions continuing labor demands and strikes, and reports about rising economic uncertainty and civil unrest. A heavy lump forms in her throat which she swallows down with a mouthful of stale pizza. Buried under a vast array of headlines is one in particular that catches her attention.

“ _Three killed and four injured in grocery store shooting_.”

She thumbs the title to read more—scrolls through the article until something grabs and rocks her viscerally.

“ _One of the victims was identified as twenty-three-year-old Jakob Walterman_.”

Darlene nearly throws her phone, but instead, it merely clatters against the table as she leaps onto her feet. Panic swells into her chest like it’s being flooded with water and she can’t breathe. Her blood runs cold and she catches on her own breath—unable to grab it as it quickens. It leaves her feeling dizzy and she collapses against the back wall. Static flutters across her limbs and her muscles seize as she hyperventilates—no longer processing just how loudly she was sobbing. Her mind reels, overwhelmed by the recollection of past trauma. The sound of semi-automatics firing—leaving an intense ringing in her ears. Glass shattering and people screaming. Cisco’s breath, staggered and heavy, and then gone. Blood warm and wet across her palms as she pressed them to a bullet wound. Desperate for the blood to stop leaking out from underneath her iron grip. The world pirouetting around her in a flurry of chaos, death, and destruction. And the sides of her vision blur black. 

She doesn’t register the familiar sound of the deadbolt clicking or the creak of the door hinges swinging open. Someone is suddenly kneeling down beside her, speaking to her, but the words are distant and indistinguishable. But she can feel when Dom places her hands on her cheeks and lifts her head to meet hers. Fingers warm and her touch so incredibly tender. Darlene allows herself—still shuddering and sobbing—to melt into Dom’s hands. Allows herself to drown in that sorely craved intimacy. And after a moment, her eyes blink open. Through her teary haze, Darlene can see Dom’s eyes—that undefinable blue-grey blend—peering steadily into her own. “Darlene.” Dom calls firmly, the sound now recognizable to her.

The adrenaline is finally draining from her system—leaving her body feeling entirely wracked and utterly weak. She sniffles and squirms—making a move to slip away from Dom’s grasp. But the agent’s hands are steady and unwavering. “Darlene.” She repeats—less of a call and more of a demand this time.

“I’m fine.” Darlene utters—voice shaky and riddled with emotion despite her attempts to subdue it. Dom tilts her head and shoots her an incredulous expression. Brows raising faintly and features silently telling her that she isn’t buying it.

“Really— _Jesus_ , you can go back upstairs…” Darlene can’t bring herself to look at Dom anymore—her eyes stinging from the tears. Suddenly, that warm touch retreats and Darlene feels an immediate yearning for it to return. But the need settles when Dom’s fingers press firmly against her wrist—steady underneath her throbbing veins. 

“You were hyperventilating,” Dom notes—a mere observation. “And your pulse is racing. What happened?” Darlene feels herself reeling again when she remembers the article still loaded on her phone. Sitting on the table across the room. She shudders with a wave of nausea that lodges itself in her throat and it feels like she might retch. So she closes her eyes tight against that sickness, as if she could simply will it away. Tries to calm herself down—to stop the emotions from overwhelming her again—but it just comes on stronger. Tears dripping down her face and wetting Dom’s hands.

“ _Fuck!_ ” The expletive slips from her lips, louder than she expected. Louder than she wanted. Shoulders trembling with the unshakable surge of self-loathing. Dom is silent, still for a moment. Contemplating her options—weighing the balance of professionalism and humanity. But looking at Darlene, trembling and sobbing and shaking uncontrollably—she sees a mirror image of herself. And she reaches her hands back out again and cups Darlene’s face in her palms. Gently strokes the wetness off her cheeks with a swipe of her thumbs.

“It’s okay, Darlene. Just breathe, okay? It’s going to be okay.” She murmurs softly—her gentle tone soothing against that overwhelming dread rattling Darlene’s chest. "Just breathe, Darlene—you're okay." Darlene sobs, allows herself to break in Dom’s reliable hands. Tears down the walls she built to safeguard her emotions from all who would dare to peek inside. She grants Dom access to enter. To see her raw and bare. Just this once—she tells herself. Just once. Just today. And so Darlene breaks. Aching, mourning, and remorseful. And Dom waits. Patient, warm, and tender as she comes back down.

* * *

“Here.” Dom says, voice soft as she drapes a blanket over Darlene’s shoulders and places a cup of water beside her feet. Slumps against the wall and takes a seat on the floor beside her—giving her whatever space she might need.

“Thanks.” Darlene forces herself to whisper, voice hoarse, and raw with emotion. She wraps her hands around the cup and takes a long sip.

“I have them too, sometimes.” Darlene turns to catch Dom’s gaze, but it’s cast out into the kitchen. Staring at nothing in particular.

“What?” Darlene asks, more for confirmation than an actual answer. She already has a fairly good idea of what Dom will say.

“PTSD. Panic attacks. Nightmares.” Dom shakes her head—red locks falling in front of her face. She reaches up and tucks them back before adding. “Whatever you want to call it.” Eases her lips into a half-smile and turns to meet Darlene’s expectant gaze. “I get what you’re going through.” Darlene scoffs at that, eyes retreating back to the expanse of the kitchen.

“Yeah. Sure.” She chuckles dryly and bites her lower lip. Rubs her fingers anxiously as she considers her next words. An agonizing statement that she doesn’t want to admit is her present reality. Even more so, to make that confession to an FBI agent who is surveilling her constantly. But then again, isn’t she the same? She shakes her head and sighs heavily against what is to come next. “Cisco—if I hadn’t dragged him into my messes—"

“Darlene…” Dom protests softly, brows furrowing. “What happened to Cisco wasn’t your fault.”

“ _Fuck_ —Dom—I’m like a goddamn tsunami. Leaving a fucking wake of destruction in my path. Cisco—and Jakob—”

“Jakob? Darlene. What happened to Jakob wasn’t Dark Army. It was a robbery gone wrong. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Darlene’s eyes are watery again, but her features have eased—just a touch. Disbelief overtakes her expression at first—as if she has to believe this is her fault. As if no other possibility exists. Squeezes her eyes shut against the pooling tears.

Dom swallows—eyes darting back and forth contemplatively. Eying that line and considering how close to step towards or over it. “Two months back or so, the task force traveled to Beijing for a meeting with representatives from the Ministry of State Security.” Her voice is suddenly hollow, that warmth draining and replaced by a solemnness that reminds Darlene of the recording she listened to the other day. It pulls her back to the present—where they are. Just two women sitting on the kitchen floor of a humid New York apartment. More honest than perhaps they’ve been in a long time. “Gunmen took us by surprise. Killed most of the agents there. I should have died— I—” Dom shakes her head. “I’ve spent a lot of nights thinking about it. If I had been smarter. If I had just been faster, more cautious. Maybe I could have saved their lives.”

Darlene simply watches and listens as Dom elaborates. Intently—soaking in every word. She wonders if that’s what woke Dom in the middle of the night—prompting her to reach under her pillow for her handgun. Riddled her chest with pained sobs. She considers saying something to console Dom, but she can’t come up with the words.

“The point is, there will always be moments where we wish we did things differently. But no matter how badly we wish we could go back and change things—we can’t. Do you know what you do, Darlene?”

Darlene reaches up and wipes the remaining wetness from her eyes—sniffling hard. “What?”

“We remember and we wake up the next day and we do better than we did the day before. That’s all we can do.”


	8. star signs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The buzz of her phone against the table snaps her back into focus, pulling her attention away from the sea of tiny fragments littered on the table and scattered throughout her mind. It illuminates with a text message from none other than Dom DiPierro herself.
> 
> “Come upstairs. We need to talk.”
> 
> in which dom and darlene try to find the line

Darlene didn’t listen in on Dom’s Alexa that night. She didn’t listen in the morning either. Her mind is filled, brimming with recollection, of when Dom held her as she sobbed. She’s embarrassed—she’s mortified. She had a fucking panic attack in front of an FBI agent and she actually let her watch. Let her touch her. Allowed her to comfort her. What is, perhaps, more unsettling is that she wishes she could experience it again. The warmth of Dom’s palms cupping her cheeks, the low soft rumble of her affirming voice. ‘ _It’s just because I’m all alone in this shit hole—Jesus, it’s basically Stockholm Syndrome.’_ Darlene rationalizes. She spends a lot of energy justifying the complex array of emotions she feels for Agent DiPierro. But lately, she’s started to feel like her excuses are rather pathetic and empty—void of any conviction. And she’s drawing closer yet closer to the conclusion that she might actually _like_ Dom. And Darlene doesn’t know what to do with that. So for now, she’ll keep funneling through flimsy excuses and emotional safeguards.

Darlene is perched on a chair by the kitchen table with her knees hugged close to her chest. Fingernails pulling at the cardboard backing of a puzzle piece, threatening to peel the coating off entirely. She’s trying to distract herself. Ward off the complexity of her feelings and the burning ache of boredom with one stone. Or in this case, a shitty thousand-piece puzzle. But she’s barely made any progress since yesterday and her mind seems too preoccupied to get any further today. Her gaze blurs, losing focus across the field of puzzle pieces adorning the table. After you’ve looked at the same sky pieces for a few hours, they all begin to look exactly the same.

She thinks that Dom is a lot like one of these box puzzles. Little fragments of a whole picture she can’t even begin to visualize. She’s an FBI agent. She’s a pain in the ass. She says she has no life, but has a warm loving family. Yet she talks to her Alexa. She seems to have no social awareness. She’s lonely. She’s a stick-in-the-mud. Entirely by the books. An honest to goodness bootlicker of the federal government. But she’s got tattoos that look like they belong to a biker giving their middle finger to everyone they pass on the highway. She’s genuine and earnest. She is smart—dangerously so. Maybe too smart for her own good. She is caring—soft and gentle and caught between the lines of professionalism and true human connection. Dom is an enigma.

_She is beautiful._

The buzz of her phone against the table snaps her back into focus, pulling her attention away from the sea of tiny fragments littered on the table and scattered throughout her mind. It illuminates with a text message from none other than Dom DiPierro herself.

“Come upstairs. We need to talk.”

Darlene feels her muscles stiffen reflexively—a chill coursing through her veins, freezing her. Besides the fact that the message seems painfully ominous, Dom never sends text messages. She usually just jogs down, complains that she isn’t dressed yet, and then tells her to come up herself. In-person. Sometimes she’ll call her. Darlene usually lets it go to voicemail and begrudgingly listens to it after a few minutes of letting it sit. She swallows against the uncharacteristic eeriness of it all—unable to stop the torrent of possibilities that swarm her mind. Maybe Dom realized she was too unstable to be an informant. Maybe Santiago had enough of her uselessness and decided to cut her loose. Perhaps Dom had finally figured out that she hacked her Alexa and Darlene was about to be on the receiving end of Agent DiPierro’s fury. That fear, so familiar and despicable, begins to surface again and brings with it a wave of nausea. But it’s not like Darlene has much of a choice in her next course of action. She swipes her phone and slides it into the pocket of her shorts before slinking off towards the upstairs apartment.

When the door eases open, slow and uncertain, Darlene can see that Dom is alone. No Santiago. No Norm either. No other agents with names and faces she can’t remember. “Geez, where’d the party go?” Darlene quips to break the tension as she edges the door shut behind her. The emptiness of the room unnerves her and she feels miles out of her league. Dom is sitting at the table, surrounded by stacks of papers and monitors and takeout coffee cups. Honestly, it seems just as unorganized and messy as the safehouse lying beneath the floorboards.

“Lunch break, for the most part.” Dom huffs—just briefly catches Darlene’s eyes before she gestures with her head to the seat across from her. “Take a seat.” Darlene feels like she’s back in high school—getting caught for vandalizing or smoking on the high school grounds—and is about to be reprimanded by the principal. She hesitates for just a moment before making her way over to the chair. The dark wood groaning against the floorboards as she pulls it away from the table. Takes a seat with one leg propped up.

“What about you?” Darlene hums, cocking her head to the side as she interrogates Dom. Catches the variety of Starbucks and Dunkin Donuts coffee cups strewn about the workspace. “What, does Dom DiPierro just run on Dunkins?” Darlene waits for a huff, a sigh, a chuckle—anything. The usual roll of her eyes. But Dom doesn’t peel her gaze away from her work. Her lips don’t curl up, easing into that exasperated half-smile Darlene is so accustomed to. No, if anything, her brows furrow—just a little. She looks stern. Serious. Or at least she’s _trying_ to be stern. Dom grabs a hold of a thin packet of papers, a staple securing them in the upper left hand corner, and drops it in front of Darlene. Darlene maintains eye contact with Dom for a long moment before reluctantly looking down at the pamphlet. “What’s this?” Darlene asks—the question posed begrudgingly rather than out of any genuine interest in it.

“That’s the information we managed to find on Cromwell. We want you to make contact with her, see what you can find out before we bring her in for questioning.” Darlene blinks down and thumbs through the pages quizzically. Her gaze interrogating the name and photograph on the front page.

“Artemis?” She reads the name off of the bio—Artemis Peterson. Darlene could’ve sworn that Jakob told her Cromwell’s name was Isaac.

“She had it legally changed earlier this year, but I don’t think it’s gotten around to the hacker circles yet.” Dom leans back in her seat and eases her fingers through her hair—sweeping the tresses back over her shoulder. “Everything you need to know should be included in that packet. Make sure that you read it.” Dom stresses, her eyes hardening as they focus back on Darlene. “All of it.” That stern gaze rattles her. A stark contrast to the soft expression that graced her features just yesterday.

“You sure you want me on this?” Darlene’s voice comes out a little shakier than she had anticipated—breathy and reluctant. “Things didn’t exactly end well for the last few hackers I chatted with.” Darlene relents with a shrug of her shoulders. Dom’s features ease—washed over with some kind of recollection—uncertain and uneasy before she finds herself again. Returns to that cold austerity.

“As long as you stick to the protocol outlined in the pamphlet, it should be fine.” Dom exhales with a heavy sigh—flitting her gaze down to the work strewn before her. Returns her hands to her keyboard as if Darlene wasn’t even there anymore. Darlene takes the packet of papers into her hands and eyes it over one more time before she glances back up to Dom. Holds her gaze steady. As if, if she simply waited long enough, Dom would return the look. But the tension lingers—thick and insufferable in the enclosed confines of the apartment. It only grows heavier as Dom seemingly ignores Darlene’s presence. She assumes the silence is a cue for her to leave. Slides her foot off the chair and settles back onto her feet. She turns towards the apartment door, but hesitates, as if her body is unwilling to follow suit. She glances down at Dom—fingers tangled up in her auburn locks and palm pressed to her forehead. Dark eyes with heavy bags darting across her laptop screen. She looks pale. Paler than usual. Darlene doubles down and makes strides towards the front door, but stops short of actually opening it and walking through. She bites her lip as if to stop herself from saying anything, but her mouth betrays her mind.

“You know—I got some leftover pizza downstairs. Can’t exactly stop Tyrell on an empty stomach.” Darlene wheedles in an attempt to break through those towering walls. To reclaim just a fragment of the personal intimacy of yesterday. To get Dom to relent and relax and take care of herself—something she clearly hasn’t been doing. But Dom doesn’t look away from her work. Doesn’t stop typing on her keyboard. Doesn’t relent and soften.

“Let me know what you learn from Cromwell.” Darlene’s eyes dart back and forth across the floorboards—shoring up the rising tides of frustration and disappointment that surge furiously in her chest. Channels that frustration into the swing of the front door and disappears as it shuts behind her.

* * *

Later that night, Darlene finds herself sprawled across the bed—flipping through the pages of the pamphlet. The meticulousness of the plan is absurd and almost insulting. Like a set of instructions on how to search and find a user on Signal. She wonders how Dom expects her to take this seriously when this pamphlet sounds like it was written for someone who barely knew how to use Twitter. But she reads through it anyways. The biography makes up for the painfully detailed protocol. A surfeit of previous minor hacking charges. First known appearance on the hacker scene around 2002. Appeared on some of the more common forums and helped to organize and participated in some large multi-user DDOS attacks. She most recently has been involved in forging hormone prescriptions for internet clientele. The edges of her lips curl into a smile and she chuckles pithily. She’s cool. And then that underlying anxiety slithers out and rattles her system. What if Artemis ended up as another Jakob. As another Cisco. How far would Darlene’s trail of blood stretch at the end of this road? She flips the packet shut and tosses it onto the nightstand with little aim or care. Her leg bounces against the surface of the bed—shaking despite herself. As if by instinct, she grabs her laptop and pulls up the audio feed from Dom’s apartment. Like a security blanket.

Music is playing—the soft strum of a guitar and a low gentle women’s voice singing. Almost like a lullaby. Darlene doesn’t usually listen to country or even enjoy it for that matter. But she thinks this song is alright. It’s soothing. Almost painfully so.

“ _Don't misunderstand me, baby, please_ _  
I didn't mean to bring back memories  
You should know the reason why I called  
I was looking for a soft place to fall_.”

“Jesus, Alexa, I’m so tired…” Dom murmurs, her voice barely rising over the sound of a fiddle crooning. A moment later, the music fades and the device chimes in response.

“You should sleep. Rest is important.” Dom scoffs as the music fades back in—that fiddle easing in and filling the silence.

“Alexa stop.” She sounds irritated. She sounds tired. Darlene rests her cheeks in her hands and closes her eyes. Imagines what Dom’s apartment might look like. A small kitchen, refrigerator. Bed towards the back of the apartment—or at least away from wherever she put the Alexa. If she was really curious, she could probably find the floorplans of Dom’s apartment online. But she likes imagining it much better. Wide windows in the back that let in lots of light during the day. But Dom is probably never around to see it with how much she works. Probably the same amount of takeout containers that Darlene has scattered throughout the safe house. Or perhaps a mountain of dishes piling in her sink. Either way, Darlene is fairly confident that Dom doesn’t spend copious amounts of time cooking in her apartment. What kind of interior design does she have? Campy southern tchotchkes? A clean modern design? Perhaps she skipped decoration altogether.

“Alexa, what’s your star sign?”

“I was released on November 6th. So, I’m a Scorpio.” Darlene laughs at that and shakes her head—their birthdays are just one day apart. What are the odds of that?

“Wonder if we’re compatible.” Dom hums—followed by a noise that sounds like the lid of a laptop shutting. “I actually don’t know shit about star signs.” Darlene considers looking up Dom’s star sign later. But she dismisses the thought as quickly as it arose. Instead, she lies down and nestles her head atop her folded arms. Eyes heavy and falling against the sound of Dom’s conversation with Alexa. And then they close entirely—and Darlene sleeps.


	9. mutual attraction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "She can’t think clearly—not in this stuffy humid apartment. Not sitting in front of her phone with a pamphlet containing most of Cromwell’s life story spread out across the table. No, she needs some space from this. Darlene grabs her wallet and sunglasses from the table. Slips on the first pair of boots she sees and slinks out of the apartment.
> 
> She needs some goddamn froyo."
> 
> in which darlene listens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> notice: fanfic rating going up to M in this chapter for sexual content!

“County road two thirty-three under my feet  
Nothin' on this white rock but little ol' me”

Darlene wakes early the next morning to the sound of an upbeat acoustic guitar plucking in her headphones. It isn’t until the drums kick in that she’s fully alert and sitting up—rubbing the crust from the corner of her eyes. Whines and brushes her fingers along the trackpad of her laptop until the screen lights up. It’s just a touch past six. _Way_ to early for her to be up, but she supposes it’s her own dumb fault for falling asleep with the audio feed running. She slides her laptop shut and places it off to the side, out of the way. Rolls back into the comforters to try and get some more sleep. But there are too many thoughts rattling around in her mind and she can’t silence them. Imagines seeing another headline of a deceased fsociety member—envisions seeing Artemis’ photo plastered across social media. Even though Dom told her Jakob wasn’t killed by Dark Army, she can’t quell the fear that someone else might die as a result of her actions. She tries to focus on something else. Anything else. Thinks about Dom lying in her bed talking to Alexa. Maybe telling her about the loose cannon emotionally unstable CHS she has to deal with. Her mind wanders to the bags under Dom’s eyes and the piled up coffee cups littering her work station. She feels a twinge of yearning for something she’s never known and has no real reason to even want. A small kindling desire to see the Dom she’s caught glimpses of in Facebook photos. At her law school graduation, at the beach, huddled around family. A Dom DiPierro who is happy. At ease. Surrounded by love and family.

Darlene rolls over onto her other side and eases further into the covers. Tries again to rationalize the emotions making it impossible for her to get back to sleep. Dom is her only real social contact right now. _Of course,_ it would suck if the only person you’re ever around is miserable. Or perhaps this is her guilt manifesting again.

‘ _This is the hardest case I’ve ever worked on, probably ever will._ ’

What would Dom DiPierro be doing if she and Elliot had never started fsociety? If they never initiated the 5/9 hack? Perhaps Dom just serves as a reminder of the long list of people that she’s fucked over. More names than she would ever know. But Darlene knows that there are plenty of people she’s used and fucked over that she couldn’t give two shits about. She groans audibly against that realization and rolls again. Wonders how long she can continue these mental gymnastics before she relents and comes to the simple inevitable conclusion: For some reason, she trusts Dom. Respects her. Likes her.

* * *

A few hours later Darlene is showered, dressed, and stationed at the kitchen table. She’s not exactly wearing her Sunday’s best, but Saturday’s “good enough” would have to do. A loose tank top with long armholes that show off the sides of her bra tucked into a pair of worn-down but comfortable shorts. Anything to stave off the summer heat. One hand thumbs through an online profile while the other one scoops up cereal. It’s the profile that was listed in the pamphlet for Cromwell. There are a few websites listed and Darlene has decided to go through all of them. Morbid curiosity maybe. Some of the accounts are fairly sparse and there are no photos of Artemis posted on any of them. Like most hackers, she’s overly cautious with her online presence. Maybe it’s more appropriate to say that she’s reasonably cautious—considering the recent outcomes for hackers associated with fsociety or Dark Army.

She posts plenty of online activism material though—at least enough to give Darlene a sense of her moral code. The reasons why she might’ve filled Turing’s position. E Corp’s health insurance policies and pharmaceutical ventures are nothing short of criminal, just like the rest of their enterprise. At best they’re exclusive and prohibitive and at worst they’re extortionist—gouging people for money and refusing coverage, leaving many to die. Not only did 5/9 take out mortgage and student debt loans, but it took out many hospital debt and loan records as well. Part of her wants to just tell Dom that Cromwell stonewalled her. Refused to speak to her. She couldn’t get in contact. But she knows Dom. She’s not stupid—she probably wouldn’t buy it. Even if she did, Dom would likely get chewed out by Santiago and Darlene would risk getting cut loose. It would be bad for both of them, probably.

Darlene collapses back as much as she can into the wooden frame of the chair and runs her lip between her teeth. Raises a hand and cards it through her hair. She can’t think clearly—not in this stuffy humid apartment. Not sitting in front of her phone with a pamphlet containing most of Cromwell’s life story spread out across the table. No, she needs some space from this. Darlene grabs her wallet and sunglasses from the table. Slips on the first pair of boots she sees and slinks out of the apartment.

She needs some goddamn froyo.

* * *

Darlene returns in midday with a large cup of frozen yogurt in her hands. The chill of the yogurt against her palm is refreshing—even if the cold has started to dissipate against the summer air. It’s half chilled—the other half having melted into a pool of soupy liquid on the commute back. But the vast array of toppings she had dumped atop it are in perfectly good condition. Darlene hums along with the music playing in her headphones and takes another spoonful of froyo as she approaches the flat. Reaches into her back pocket and pulls out the faded gold key to the safe house. Notices how the lock doesn’t give when she twists it open like it usually does. It’s already unlocked. Darlene inhales deep, nerves frazzled at the realization that someone was in there. Logically, she knew it was probably FBI. Most likely. But her underlying anxiety never allows her to let go of that slim chance. That improbability that there was a masked Dark Army operative waiting in the lull of the flat to gun her down. Darlene pulls the buds from her ears and dangles them around her neck so she can hear clearly. Braces herself and slowly eases the door open—cognizant to prevent as much of the irritating creak of the hinges as she enters. Worms her way through the entrance and peers her head through the hallway to get a clear view of the kitchen. Her muscles instinctually relax when she sees Dom sitting at the table.

“God, you scared me.” Darlene huffs, closing the door behind her as she walks in. She reaches up and slides the sunglasses to the top of her head. Scoops up another spoonful of frozen yogurt and polishes the plastic spoon clean with her tongue. Dom looks exasperated—more than usual, which says something. She’s glaring at her, almost with an air of disbelief, as Darlene pulls out a chair and takes a seat. Swings her legs up and rests her feet on the table.

Dom stares at her boots before returning her gaze to Darlene. “Where the hell have you been?” Darlene tilts her head and smirks—lifting up her cup as she swallows the food in her mouth.

“I wanted some froyo. What—is it against my parole to grab frozen yogurt, officer?” She quips playfully, falling so easily into their usual rhythm.

“I called you three times.” Dom chides, leaning back in her seat and folding her arms defensively. Darlene’s hands raise up pointedly and her eyes roll faintly with irritation.

“Dude, chill. The signal in the subway is absolute _shit_.” Darlene hums with that—raking her spoon through the remaining frozen yogurt. “You can just tell me if you’re butthurt that I got froyo and didn’t get any for you. I get it.” Seals her lips around her spoon and retracts it—placing it back into the cup. Reaches up to wipe the yogurt that drips from her mouth and threatens to stain her shirt. She’s quick to polish the sticky sweetness off her fingers. Blinks up and catches Dom’s suddenly avoidant gaze as she redirects it to the contents of the table. Eyes darting back and forth and throat lurching with a thick swallow. It gives Darlene pause and she places her cup down on the table—eyes narrowing as she contemplates the meaning of Dom’s sudden nerves. Her introspection only interrupted by Dom snapping back into work mode.

“Look, did you make contact with Cromwell yet?” Darlene exhales heavily, her eyes falling to the pamphlet that has been neatly straightened on the table.

“Not yet. Been kind of busy reading the packet you gave me. Lot of pages, you know.” Darlene crooks her head to the other side and flashes Dom a quick smile. “Could’ve done without the tutorial of how to use Twitter though.” Dom’s eyebrows perk up at that, her expression relenting a little. Dom knows that she’s right about that. They both know she’s not stupid.

“Did you finish it?” Dom is quick to follow up.

“Yeah.” Darlene slides her feet off of the table, suddenly unable to get comfortable in her seat. Weighing how emotionally honest she wants to be with Dom. Recalls the cold wall of hostility Dom greeted her with the day after her panic attack and decides to withhold—just a bit. “Just this morning. I was going to get around to it later today. You know, after froyo.” Dom eases up, straightening in her seat and running her hands across her pants.

“Okay. I expect a briefing tomorrow before noon, so I would consider skipping any ‘froyo’ excursions tomorrow.” Dom huffs—standing up and starting to collect her belongings from the table.

“Dude, I get it, just tell me what flavor you want and I’ll grab you one.” Darlene can’t hold back the smirk that stretches across her face at the flustered expression Dom makes. Maintains that eye contact as Dom pulls her handbag over her shoulder and tilts her head—eyebrows cocking expectantly.

“ _Before_ noon, Darlene.” She stresses with a heavy exhale before trailing off into the hallway and out of the safe house.

* * *

The day feels like it stretches on forever. That tends to happen when you have nothing to do but sit around a safe house all day. Darlene has procrastinated on reaching out to Cromwell and she knows that the longer she waits the more likely she is to get chewed out by DiPierro and Santiago. The protocol outlined in the pamphlet was pretty solid. She knew that the risk was fairly low. Everything would probably work out fine. _Probably_. She figures that this is likely one of those bandaid situations. Where you just need to rip it off quickly so it’ll hurt less. So that’s what she does. Types out the prewritten message to Cromwell’s Signal account and sends it without going through the same loop of “what ifs” again. She doesn’t wait to see if Cromwell sees the message or even responds. She doesn’t want to know—not right now, anyways. Her exhale is shaky, more nerve-ridden than she anticipated. Almost if by instinct, she reaches for her laptop. Back to that audio feed from a familiar Alexa unit. Slides her earbuds in and waits, listens for some cheesy country music or folk-blues, or for Dom’s weary conversations with Alexa. But it’s silent. Quieter than Darlene anticipates for this time of night. Usually, there’s _something_ —but it isn’t picking up anything. Darlene chews on the inside of her cheek as her ears hone in for any hint of a noise. And then, finally, something.

A heavy sigh that breaks through the silence of the apartment and then fizzles out. Followed a few seconds later by a harsh inhale and what sounds like a strangled whimper. Darlene’s eyes narrow curiously—intently. At first concerned that maybe Dom had accidentally gotten hurt, or perhaps that she was having another one of her PTSD nightmares. But those worries are washed away by the sound of quick heavy breathing and a pithy moan that inks into the air. Darlene processes those sounds and then is blindsided by the recognition of just _what_ exactly she’s listening to. Her suspicions are only further confirmed by another series of whimpers and soft moans that buzz hot in her ears. “ _Shhhit—_ ” An expletive drawls from Dom’s lips. Followed by a series of pleasurable noises that etch themselves into her mind. Darlene’s cheeks burn—flustered and overwhelmed by the realization that Dom is touching herself right now. And she’s listening. She swallows hard. Thick. The red on her cheeks spreads and grows warmer—almost painfully so—when her center throbs in response to Dom’s sounds. She considers, ever so briefly, meeting that arousal with the soft touch of her hand against her clit—but resists. Instead, she makes a quick move to close the audio feedback. Closes the program, shuts her laptop lid with record speed, and shoves it away—as if it were a bomb nearing its detonation.

Her mind is reeling—racing and overwhelmed with a plethora of conflicting emotions and thoughts that she can’t sort out. Dom was pleasuring herself. There definitely wasn’t anybody else in that room. Darlene would’ve heard another person—the creak of a bed—something. Not that figuring out if someone was fucking Dom should have even graced her thoughts. Regardless, Dom was touching herself and Darlene listened. She’s flustered. She feels gross—having violated Dom’s privacy in a way she hadn’t anticipated doing. Perhaps most poignantly, she’s confused and frustrated at the prolonged warmth and throbbing still emanating between her legs. But she refuses to satiate or even acknowledge it. Instead, she leans up. Turns off the lights with the tips of her fingers and buries her face into her pillow in a desperate attempt to fall asleep and forget what she had heard. But no matter how hard she tries to will it away and silence it—the sounds of Dom’s pleasure thrum strong in her mind.


	10. auditory remnants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Darlene groans and shoves her head between her knees. Does her best to forget what she had heard last night. But she can’t. She’s tried all morning. Blaring music while she was in the shower. Listening to a podcast while she ate her breakfast. Sat around all afternoon watching shitty reality television shows. But the memory is always there—lingering."
> 
> in which Darlene tries to forget and cannot

Knees huddled close to her chest and her phone nestled between her hands. Darlene stares, almost mindlessly, at the time posted in the upper corner of the screen. Her eyes trained on the numbers as they slowly shift forward. It’s almost eleven-thirty—meaning she still has another half hour to prolong drudging upstairs to talk to Dom. Their conversation from yesterday rings in her head. _Before noon_. Recalls the bags collecting under Dom’s eyes and the accrued collection of take-out coffee cups. Part of Darlene wants to tell Dom everything she knows. To tell her to just go home and get some sleep—take a fucking vacation or something. But then again, that would leave her with Santiago and Norm who are, categorically, unbearable. The other part of Darlene wants to bolt out the front door and ditch the meeting all together as she recalls last night. Vividly remembers the way that Dom moaned and whimpered—soft, pitch high, and each moan melting into the other. Breath heavy and heady with quick pants.

Darlene groans and shoves her head between her knees. Does her best to forget what she had heard last night. But she can’t. She’s tried all morning. Blaring music while she was in the shower. Listening to a podcast while she ate her breakfast. Sat around all afternoon watching shitty reality television shows. But the memory is always there—lingering. Sultry and arousing and entirely inescapable. It doesn’t help that her recollection of Dom’s whimpering moans provokes a pulsing throb between her legs. One that she refuses the acknowledge or satiate.

She raises her head up from between her knees, head lolling back to rest against the back of the chair. Exhales heavily with the knowledge that the longer she puts this off the more irritated Dom is going to be. And the more shit she’s going to get. Opens her phone and pulls up the Signal app. Scrolls through Signal messages she had exchanged with Cromwell earlier this morning. The corner of her lip pulls into a frown, not entirely pleased with the results and certain that Santiago and DiPierro would be even _more_ displeased. With some amount of reluctance, Darlene rolls up onto her feet and heads upstairs for the dreaded meeting.

* * *

Darlene eases the door open and slowly snakes her way inside. Takes notice of any changes since the last time she was in here. Today it was Dom and Norm sitting at the table and surrounded by monitors displaying feed from the street and safehouse. She wonders, for a brief moment, if Dom would ever listen to the recordings late at night. When she’s blowing off steam between the sheets. Her hand fumbling around furiously her boxers. But she dismisses the thought as soon as it arrives. Instead, she makes her way over to the couch. Sitting at the table—stuck between the two of them—always feels way too awkward for her. Her gaze is intentionally avoidant—choosing to train her sights on Norm. Regarding him with some amount of suspicion. He’s not necessarily as malicious as Santiago, but Darlene doesn’t think he’s as bright or caring as Dom. Put rather simply, he’s an irritating energy drainer.

She plops down on the sofa, sinking into the staging furniture as she starts to fidget anxiously with her phone. Does her best to quell the tremor in her leg as her anxiety glissades under her muscles. She keeps her eyes glued to the screen to keep her mind anywhere but _here_. But she can hear the scuffing of chairs and tapping of shoes against the floorboards. Can tell that someone is making their way over. Can feel Dom’s looming presence hovering over her.

“You actually came before noon.” Dom almost sounds surprised—or relieved. Darlene can’t quite pin which one without looking at her face. “Barely.” She adds in, forcing a lump into Darlene’s throat that she quickly swallows down. Eases into a heavy sigh and blinks up at Dom. Tall, arms folded, and fiery locks tied up into a ponytail. Darlene’s expression softens at the realization that she’s never seen Dom with her hair up. It looks… nice. Her eyes are immediately drawn to Dom’s long neck adorned with light freckles—soft flesh that looks so… Darlene catches her train of thought and immediately derails it before it can spiral into absurdist fantasies. She blinks again and then her gaze darts away—suddenly unsure of where she should look. Does her best to find her footing before Dom can realize that she lost it.

“Yeah, well. Froyo place is closed today, so.” She shoots back, eyebrows quirking. “Not like I had anywhere else better to be.” She drawls, exhaling the tension riddled in her chest. Dom uncrosses her arms and places them on her hips—weight shifting onto one leg as her expression hardens.

“Okay. What’s the status update on Cromwell?” Straight to business. Darlene prefers that—the less time she has to spend here, the better.

“Here,” Darlene huffs, extending out her phone. The Signal app already open. “You can look for yourself.” Dom’s gaze bounces down to the Motorola, almost taken off guard by Darlene’s transparency, before taking it into her hands. Begins scrolling through the messages. Dom gives a thoughtful hum as she reads the interactions, eyes darting back and forth across the screen. The noise is so brief and soft—but it provokes something in Darlene. A warm shudder crawling along the curve of her spine and heat starting to suffuse across her cheeks. Redirects that nervous arousal to her hands and starts fidgeting with her rings.

“Made contact, although this doesn’t give us much to work with.” Dom sighs, head shaking, and ponytail following the motion. Darlene can hear a chair shuffling in the background as her vision eclipses around her painted nails. Starts picking at that black polish.

“Let me take a look.” Norm asks—almost demanding. Darlene can see him approaching Dom in her peripheral vision.

“Sure, not too much to look at though.” Darlene imagines that if she looked up right now, Dom might be glaring at her. But she can’t bring herself to look at her right now. Not with the recollection of last night still fresh in her mind. A few moments later, Norm chimes in with his opinion that Darlene thinks is very much unwarranted.

“That’s it? Half of these messages weren’t even included in the protocol.” Norm groans exasperatedly—raising his hands before settling them on his thighs. “I’m starting to agree with Santiago, this girl is flighty, irresponsible, and unreliable.”

“Hello? Sitting right here, you know.” Darlene chimes in, finally raising her gaze to glare at Norm who returns the expression. Dom seems to sense the tension—wets her lips as she considers how to approach the situation. Ultimately decides to crouch so she’s more eye-level with Darlene.

“She’s not unreliable, but Darlene, Norm has a point. You went off-script. Why?” Darlene squirms in her seat, unable to get comfortable with Dom that close to her. Tries to make eye contact but her gaze quickly dashes away. That warmth now sweltering as it settles across her face.

“What can I say? Hackers are cautious—Artemis especially. I need to build some kind of rapport before I jump into interrogation mode.” Darlene explains with a shaky exhale, her focus now settled back on her fingers. Dom takes the information in—slowly processing—and scrutinizes Darlene. Watches as she peels back the coat of nail polish on her fingers. Leaving patchy stripes of black. Sees that red glow on her cheeks. A nervousness that’s so uncharacteristic of Darlene. Just yesterday she had been cracking jokes about froyo and returning every demand with a playful snide remark. Now she’s sunk into the couch—small like a frightened animal trying to hide.

Dom’s spent enough time working with Darlene now to be able to tell when she’s bullshitting her. Or at the very least, not telling her the whole truth. She doesn’t get the sense that Darlene is necessarily doing either right now, but something is up with her. And that piques Dom’s curiosity.

“Alright. Do you have any other updates? Anything else going on?” Dom wheedles, prying for more information. Fishing for the root cause of Darlene’s nerves. Darlene swallows thickly and blinks up to catch Dom’s eyes—forcing a brief smile across her face.

“Nope. Same old same old.” Dom tilts her head at that—she isn’t buying it.

“Darlene, you know you can talk to me.” She murmurs, low. Gentle. It’s soothing. But Darlene recalls the last time she opened up and the cold hostility Dom offered the next day.

“Can I?” Darlene returns, a bit surprised by how soft and vulnerable the words come out. Shakes her head as if she regretted even asking.

“Believe what you want Darlene, but I do care.” Dom lowers her head in an attempt to catch Darlene’s gaze and hold it. She does. They maintain that eye contact for a long moment. Scrutinizing each other. Reading each other. As if all their secrets and all their logic and reasoning and rationale could be decrypted from the oceanic blue in their eyes. Darlene is the first to break the contact, running her lower lip between her teeth and playing idly with her rings again. Still mulling over Dom’s last statement. Deciding whether or not she believes her. _She does, even if she doesn’t necessarily want to_. Which only makes her feel more disgusting for invading Dom’s privacy the other night.

“ _Jesus H_., you look like you’re burning up…” Dom makes a move to place the back of her hand against Darlene’s forehead, but Darlene swats it away before she gets the chance. Exhales heavily and glares up at Dom. Flustered and almost bewildered. Doing her best to look irritated, but not entirely succeeding. Shakes her head and titters softly.

“Jeez, it’s like, 102 outside today. It’s hot, okay?” She huffs, lifting her hand and extending her palm out towards Dom. “I’m fine, alright? So unless you have anything else to tell or ask me, I’d like my phone back.” Dom’s tender gaze dashes away and she nods her head thoughtfully. Perhaps considering whether or not she had crossed a boundary she shouldn’t have.

“Alright.” She relents, soft, and reluctant. Places the Motorola in Darlene’s hand and slowly stands back up. Reaches up and tucks the stray tresses of hair that had fallen in front of her face behind her ear. “You know how to reach us if you need anything.” And with that, she makes her way over to the table where Norm had already returned and pulls out her seat. Wooden legs groaning against the floorboards with the motion. She hesitates for a moment and turns her attention back to Darlene. Just for a second.

“I’ll be expecting more updates from Cromwell.” And then she sits—directing her focus back to the work spewed out in front of her. Darlene can feel her muscles begin to relax, easing as the tension remaining in her chest dissipates. She watches from a distance as Dom fishes around for one of her signature lollipops and plops it inside her mouth. Swallows when her lips part just enough for her to see her tongue tending to the candy. She shakes her head—irritated at the heat that sinks from her face and drains lower. She slides her phone into her pocket and makes a beeline for the door. Perhaps her fastest exit yet.


End file.
